•  m 


Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 


Form  L  I 


PS 


073rc 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  belo 


"HERN  BRANCH, 
OF  CALIFORNIA, 


NGELES, 


"THE  ONE  DREAD  THING  HAS  HAPPENED" 


Road  of  Living  Men 


By 
Will  Levington  Comfort 

Author  of  "  Routledge  Rides  Alone,"  "  She  Buildeth  Her  House," 
"  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door"  etc. 


With  a  Frontispiece  by 

M.  Leone  Bracker 


29842 


Philadelphia  &  London 

J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 

1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PUBLISHED.  MARCH,  IpI3 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

AT  THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA,  U.  S.  A. 


-3  5  i 


To  M.  S. 

YOU  WILL  HAVE  FORGOTTEN  (FROM  AN  OLD  LETTER 
OF  YOURS)  THE  PARAGRAPH  RESPONSIBLE  FOR  THIS 
STORY.  .  .  .  YOU  MUST  HAVE  SEEN  IT  VERY  CLEARLY 
AND  WANTED  IT  VERY  MUCH,  WHEN  YOU  WROTE: 

Do  us  just  a  story  —  a  story  so  sheer  and  calling, 
that  one  by  one  we  shall  steal  away  from  the  world's 
company,  as  if  we  heard  our  lover's  whistle  out 
among  the  trees;  steal  away  and  follow  on  and 
on,  entranced,  expectant,  fresh-eyed  as  children. 
Make  us  forget  how  tired  we  are,  how  emotionally 
worn-out.  Just  for  once  put  away  reforms  and 
impressiveness;  do  not  remind  us  this  once  that 
we  are  going  full  tilt  in  directions  damnable.  .  .  . 
The  Real  Adventure,  the  True  Romance,  a  Story- 
Lady  so  deep  and  fine  that  she  does  not  betray 
herself  with  the  writer's  hand;  a  lover,  worthy, 
who  tells  the  tale;  no  chapter-heads;  no  exclama 
tion-marks;  just  the  writing  and  the  dear  art  of 
it,  so  we  may  sink  forty  fathoms  down.  Oh,  there 
are  so  many  of  us  who  need  such  a  story.  .  .  . 

WHAT    A    SUMPTUOUS    FRAME    TO    FILL.     I    HAVEN'T 

FILLED  IT,  BUT  ALWAYS  IN  THE  BETTER  MOMENTS 
OF  THE  TALE  I  HAVE  SEEMED  TO  SEE  YOU  AS  YOU 

WROTE.     ONLY  IN  so  FAR  AS  THIS  is  NEAR  TO  GOOD, 

IS  IT  YOURS,  BUT  FOR  THE  IDEA  (AND  FOR  HOW 
MANY  THINGS,  BESIDE),  A  FRIEND'S  THANK  YOU. 

WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 


Contents 

PART  I 


YELLOW  RIVER. 


PART  II 
LONG  ISLAND 75 

PART  III 
LOST  VALLEY 161 


I 

YELLOW  RIVER 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 


IT  occurs  to  me,  Thomas  Ryerson,  that  I  have  a 
story  to  tell,  and  that  I  can  tell  it  after  a  fashion.  It  is 
my  story  of  the  world  and  the  woman. 

At  Oporto,  a  little  watering-place  in  northern  Spain, 
I  first  met  Mary  Romany.  I  can  shut  my  eyes,  when 
all  is  still,  and  drift  back.  My  father  and  I  were  world- 
wanderers.  He  never  found  sunlight,  after  the  darkness 
of  my  mother's  death,  but  traveled  and  traveled.  Very 
quiet  in  his  sorrow  he  was,  and  very  dear  to  me.  There 
was  but  one  romance  in  his  life,  as  in  mine;  it  was  his 
life's  largest  affair,  as  is  mine. 

I  was  sixteen,  and  Mary  Romany  two  or  three  years 
younger,  but  films  from  lost  ages  stirred  within  me,  at 
the  turn  of  the  maid's  hand.  As  men,  we  seem  to  have 
come  a  very  long  way  to  this  latest  life.  Sometimes  I 
believe  that  we  come  with  loves  and  hates  unfinished; 
that  certain  contacts  take  up  the  old  stories  again ;  that 
sudden  gusts  of  love  are  far  deeper  matters  than  men 
make  of  them.  I  seemed  to  have  known  the  arch  of 
Mary  Romany's  brow,  the  arc  of  her  eyelash,  the  im 
print  of  her  finger — before  Atlantis  was  lost.  The 
slender  flying  figure  animated  a  vague  but  passionate 
spirit  of  quest. 

There  was  a  touch  of  wildness  about  her  that  awed 
me  and  often  made  me  speechless.  Yet  we  were  much 
together — bathing  in  the  surf,  sailing  when  the  ocean 

11 


12  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

was  still  enough,  strolling  along  the  cliffs  and  beaches, 
or  reading  on  the  quiet  verandas  of  charming  old  Muriel. 
.  .  .  Once  when  we  walking  along  the  cliffs,  she  paused 
to  watch  a  group  of  men  and  boys  playing  in  the  sea. 
They  were  shouting  and  diving  into  the  combers,  play 
ing  water-polo  and  having  much  sport.  I  had  scarcely 
noted  them  nor  heard  their  voices,  until  she  pointed 
down. 

"  Why  don't  you  play  with  them,  Tom  Ryerson, — 
and  not  always  with  me — a  girl  ?  " 

It  was  pure  poison — that  she  could  think  me  but  part 
of  a  man.  Instantaneous  rebellion  was  mine.  In  a  flash 
the  way  came  to  mind. 

"  I  have  '  played '  with  you  because  I  preferred. 
There  are  young  men  to  play  with  everywhere.  Come 
with  me.  I  will  show  you  something " 

She  followed  adventurously,  impressed  by  the  look 
of  my  face.  To  the  east  of  the  Muriel,  the  cliffs  for 
some  distance  abut  directly  from  the  sea.  There  is  no 
slope  nor  beach.  According  to  the  tide,  from  five  to  ten 
feet  of  water  lies  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs,  which  rise  at 
this  point  to  a  height  between  forty  and  fifty  feet.  A 
few  minutes'  hurried  walk,  and  Mary  Romany  and  I 
stood  together  upon  the  eminent  point.  She  laughed 
nervously  as  I  whipped  off  coat  and  collar. 

"  You  think  me  a  coward,"  I  said  with  emphasis, 
"  but  I  will  show  you  something  those  men  and  boys 
in  the  surf  dare  not  do " 

I  pointed  to  the  circling  gulls  to  distract  her  atten 
tion,  and  dived — her  scream  in  my  ears — half  a  hundred 
feet  to  the  sea.  It  was  twice  the  height  I  had  ever 
before  attempted,  though  I  loved  the  sport,  and  had 
thought  much  of  the  science  of  it;  dived  amazingly  in 


Yellow  River  13 

imagination,  as  a  youthful  mind  fascinated  with  billiards 
describes  possible  caroms  in  the  dark.  Aiming  far 
out  toward  a  patch  of  darker  water,  I  held  the  point 
luckily,  struck  the  sea  at  a  good  angle,  and  ruddered 
with  my  hands  at  the  impact,  since  the  depth  was  so 
slight.  Then  I  fought  the  surf  to  a  rock  and  climbed 
upon  it.  For  a  moment  the  girl's  horrified  face  strained 
down  from  the  cliffs. 

My  father  liberated  me  a  half-hour  later  with  a 
skiff,  and  rowed  to  a  landing,  quietly  regarding  me. 
At  his  heels,  I  followed  to  the  hotel.  Mary  Romany  was 
there  before  me,  standing  afar  off,  scarlet  and  ashen 
by  turns — scorching  me  with  her  rage.  As  I  passed 
through  the.  hall  in  my  wet  clothing,  her  mother  rushed 
forth  from  a  room.  For  an  instant,  I  was  pressed  to 
her  frail  breast.  In  some  unearthly  way,  my  mind 
received  an  imperishable  impression  of  the  width  and 
depth  of  dark  unmerciful  eyes. 

I  shall  never  forget  that.  I  loved  Madame  Romany 
with  instant  impetuousness.  I  had  never  before  seen 
her  in  a  fathoming  sense,  rather  as  a  study  of  brilliant 
inaction — a  still  mystery,  like  an  afternoon  valley  or  a 
cliff  in  moonlight.  But  now,  something  from  her  race 
seemed  to  come  to  me.  She  was  the  source  and  sanction 
of  my  love  for  the  maid  so  like  her.  In  them  was  the 
ineffable,  the  latent  treasure,  the  Ryerson  Grail.  After 
ward  my  mind  was  held  by  interpretations  of  that 
high,  strange  moment. 

Her  words  I  scarcely  remember.  She  asked  me  not 
to  be  so  thoughtless  again;  spoke  of  the  tragedy  my 
death  would  have  been  to  my  father;  told  me  I  would 
have  been  braver  merely  to  answer  a  foolish  girl's  ques 
tion.  "  Girls  are  always  asking  foolish  questions.  Mary 


14  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

wanted  to  hear  what  you  would  say.  Girls  always  do 
— want  to  hear  what  boys  will  say." 

Then  her  eyes  lifted  to  my  father's.  I  was  conscious 
of  his  pallor.  They  had  not  met.  ...  He  had  been 
waiting  until  we  should  be  alone  in  the  apartment  to 
speak  of  my  foolhardiness,  but  the  intention  seemed 
gone  from  him.  With  bowed  head,  he  sat  lost  in 
thought,  his  face  pale  and  anxious,  as  I  bathed  and 
dressed.  He  tried  to  speak,  while  I  stood  by  waiting  for 
him  to  go  to  dinner;  made  several  attempts,  of  which 
only  this  sentence  came: 

"  I  haven't  seen  the  little  girl's  father " 

"  He's  in  Egypt,"  said  I. 

Before  he  broke  the  silence  again  (a  silence  I  did 
not  understand  at  all  then)  I  anticipated  with  sickening 
dread  his  next  words: 

"  We  shall  leave  here  to-morrow,  Thomas." 

I  had  never  disputed  his  plans.  I  did  not  now.  .  .  . 
At  dinner  I  told  Madame  Romany  we  were  going  away. 
About  nine  o'clock  I  was  sitting  alone  on  the  piazza.. 
Mary  was  in  the  drawing-room  playing — those  old  sweet 
lesser  things,  designed  to  enchant  a  young  soul — the 
Melody  in  F,  Blue  Danube,  even  Trauynerei,  the  Spring 
Song,  a  bit  of  La  Norma  and  Schubert's  Serenade.  .  .  . 
I  was  devoured  by  tragedy.  She  had  laughed  at  the 
old  black  upright  at  the  Muriel,  but  it  was  all  I  could 
ask  or  bear.  She  seemed  very  far  from  me,  strangely 
finished  and  consummate.  I  was  sick  with  shame  for 
the  cheap  boyish  thing  I  had  done — yet  afraid  to  go  in, 
afraid  to  speak,  lest  she  tell  me  of  my  commonness.  I 
was  deeply  sunk  in  the  silence  at  the  end  of  the  playing. 
There  was  a  light  swift  tread  behind  me,  the  touch  of 
hands  and  lips  to  my  cheekf  and  she  was  gone.  .  .  . 


Yellow  River 


15 


Through  the  hall,  I  saw  her,  light-limbed,  agile,  her 
dark  hair  flying.  .  .  .  The  next  day  I  took  her  hand,  and 
turned  away  to  the  bleak  world — fit  companion  for  my 
gentle  and  melancholy  father. 

At  the  very  first,  (and  this  paragraph  is  an  insertion), 
it  seems  good  to  explain  that  there  is  a  moment  in  this 
narrative,  in  which  I  really  came  to  know  Mary  Romany, 
to  see  her  as  a  man  sees  a  woman.  It  is  absorbing  there 
fore  to  discover .  upon  these  early  chapters,  the  very 
vagueness  and  ineffectually,  where  the  girl  is  con 
cerned,  that  actually  pervaded  my  mind  in  those  days. 
She  seems  a  girl  of  the  dusks,  catching  an  occasional 
/•ray  from  a  youth's  wide-flung  beaming.  I  disclaim  any 
artistic  idea  of  planning  this  preliminary  J  "*  It 

was  so  in  life;  and  when  I  came,  in  the  fu'  .-, 

to  write  of  these  beginnings,  acute  adolesc  ->n 

me  once  more  and  her  face  turned  away.  iin 

altering  adventure,  and  in  the  midst  o'  ->m- 

parable  days,  the  romantic  illusions  ff  and 

the  reality  stood  forth. 


I  REMEMBER  awakening  in  the 
previous  to  my  father's  death.    It  • 
four  years  after  Oporto,  and  I  had 
again.    We  had  been  quartered  1 
old  Rudinoff  Palace,  where  the 
altitude,  and  silence  was  bred  r 
The  seasonal  mystery  of  the  nc 
place  in  the  night.     I  felt  the 
awake  in  the  vast  room,  open 
cold  had  ached  in  my  nostr 


e  night, 

itersburg 

Romanys 

jnds  in  the 

e  dim  from 

massiveness. 

ry  was  taking; 

ic  air  as  I  lay 

.nd  north.    The 

as  I  fell  asleep, 


16  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

but  now  the  resilience  of  spring  had  entered  the  dead 
pressures  of  icy  atmosphere — forerunner  of  the  "  green 
noise  "  which  resurrects  the  earth. 

Our  servant  came  through  the  apartment  in  the 
gray  of  morning  to  close  the  windows  and  turn  on  the 
steam.  Presently  my  father  emerged  from  his  chamber 
and  sat  down  beside  me.  We  seldom  really  see  the 
faces  of  those  with  whom  we  pass  our  days,  but  that 
morning  the  veil  of  familiarity  was  lifted.  Years  of 
loving  had  refined  the  face;  sorrow  had  become  tender 
ness.  The  glow  of  it  was  there  like  the  pale  sunlight 
in  the  room.  The  flags  of  the  court  below  were  black- 
wet  where  snow  had  been,  and  in  the  niches  of  the 
looming  gray  masonry,  the  birds  were  stirring  with  ex 
citement.  Every  unshadowed  place  was  touched,  not 
with  ruddy  gold,  but  with  the  paler  spirit  of  sunlight. 
The  prison-house  of  winter  was  broken.  Death  was 
turned  to  victory  again. 

"  Can  you  smell  the  river?"  he  asked,  brushing  back 
his  hair.  "  It  came  in  the  night." 

That  day  shall  always  mean  the  beginning  of  a  new 
blooming  to  me — an  expiration  of  the  old.  .  .  .  We  sat 
long  at  breakfast,  my  father  eating  little  or  nothing, 
and  from  time  to  time  turning  his  eyes  timidly  to  me. 
I  would  smile  at  him,  and  cover  my  embarrassment  with 
a  laugh.  It  had  been  often  so  in  his  presence — my  spirit 
hungering  to  say  the  intimate,  unerring  truth  of  the 
relation,  but  offering  no  adjustment  to  words.  The 
flesh  seems  integrated  with  evasions.  When  we  become 
greater  beings  than  men,  we  shall  be  simple  instruments 
to  express  the  honor  and  beauty  which  now  are  but 
the  surgings  of  our  silence. 

Quietly,  my  father  leaned  forward  to  say — as  if  death 


Yellow  River  17 

had  been  a  common  topic  between  us  —  instead  of  virgin 
to  our  exchanges  : 

"  We  fall  into  dreams  so  full  and  perfect  —  that  the 
rousing  from  them  is  pain.  .  .  .  Suppose  it  should  be 
just  that  —  I  mean,  suppose  Death  should  be  just  that 
—  falling  into  a  dream  that  has  no  rousing?" 

Thus  he  stated  the  conclusion  of  his  years  of  think 
ing  and  hungering  for  the  woman  who  clothed  my 
spirit  with  her  flesh. 

.  .  .  He  leaned  back  and  shut  his  eyes.  A  quiver 
passed  throu  V  VTTT:.  as  *u~"  ""^  °  f<->r^Cf  at  the  pnH  of 


strange   stilh" 

trees  bow  to  whisper  a  gret 

sengers.     "  " 

crossed  to  him  jn  terri 

hand  that  lifu- 

The  ceilings  of  the  old  palace  seemed  to  me  a 

height. 


ON  the  \ving- 
I  left  trave 

things,  exce  in  none,  c 

ticnlar  ambi 
gard  my  atotude 
destructive  vUene: 
and   no  essential  pn 
where.     Me 
passionate  2 
to  a  separa 
but  differer 
honestly  frc 
by  rising  t 


18  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

eminence  apart — a  chalky  eminence  erected  of  another's 
money  and  guardianship. 

There  were  three  years  of  Tibet.  The  idea  of  deal 
ing  first-hand  with  a  country  and  becoming  authoritative, 
endured  for  this  period;  but  after  the  fascinations  of 
that  cold  lofty  land,  there  seemed  no  use  to  be  made  of 
my  knowledge;  and  my  many  notes  are  as  yet  without 
binding.  One  thing  came  to  pass  in  my  mind,  how 
ever,  and  I  have  found  it  basic:  Study  of  any  race, 
however  humble,  whose  object  of  worship  is  not  matter, 
ripens  and  deepens  the  understanding  of  a  stranger. 
My  impressions  of  Tibetan  religious  life  stand  to-day  as 
more  significant  than,  for  instance,  the  rousing  din 
of  European  progress. 

At  twenty-five  I  sat  down  in  Hong  Kong  to  study 
the  passing  show  and  meditate  upon  the  big  continent 
behind,  the  heart  and  capitol  of  which  in  my  conscious 
ness  was  the  Lama's  Tableland.    Hong  Kong  is  a  house 
of  all  nations.    My  notes  of  Tibet  were  still  synthesizing, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  to  do  a  book  of  sketches,  cosmo- 
'  ^n  portraits.     Again  my  training  proved  limp  when 
work  assumed  bulk.     I  lacked  the  sense  of 
and  the  corresponding  delight  in  attain- 
"ves  through   a  task,  making  prolonged 
Far  more  interesting,  it  was,  to  listen 
nowing  them,  to  study  their  ways  and 
?nts,  hands  and  foreheads, — than  to 
'at  I  had  heard  and  thought.    Many 
hroughout  a  long  evening,   at  a 
:  in  the  International.    The  table 
'ies,  within  hearing  range  of  the 
he  vast  field  of  green  baize  in 
ir   intervals   I  would   drink   a 


Yellow  River  19 

light  Rhenish  wine  with  much  water,  and  listen  to  the 
play  of  brilliance  and  vulgarity,  elate  and  quickened 
with  concepts  that  lost  their  lustre  when  I  began  to  set 
them  down.  I  did  not  seem  able  to  reproduce  in  spirit 
the  cosmopolitan  atmosphere  which  was  the  charm  of  it 
all.  I  could  say  it  was  there,  but  could  not  make  the 
pages  pulsate  with  it ;  and  so  that  book  is  another  basket 
of  unconnectible  scraps,  like  Teufelsdrockh's  note-bags. 

Of  insistent  and  perennial  interest  to  me  are  the 
relations  of  men  and  women;  and  here  my  sense  of 
separateness  from  the  men  of  the  world  came  with 
restless  burning.  Something  of  the  agony  of  an  un- 
desired  woman,  it  must  have  been,  that  went  over  me 
like  a  fire  at  the  sight  of  certain  mated  pairs.  And 
always  with  a  shock,  I  discovered,  if  their  passing  was 
close, — the  seeming  commonness  they  made  of  it.  ... 

A  Chinese  coolie  grumbling  behind  his  woman  in 
the  yellow  dusk  hour;  she  of  stock  so  common  as  not 
to  know  the  shelter  and  conserving  of  the  feminine  so 
pervasive  in  China;  just  a  pair  like  this  grumbling  in 
the  dusky  twilight  along  the  yellow  river — and  yet  all 
the  mystery  of  the  world  was  in  the  picture  to  me.  .  .  . 
A  titled  Englishman  standing  with  his  bride  against  the 
steamer-rail  in  the  harbor  at  Hong  Kong;  the  man  com 
plaining  that  breakfast  had  been  cold,  tea  and  chops  ex 
ecrable.  ...  I  caught  the  girl's  eye.  And  this  was  her 
romance,  the  end  of  dreams.  She  was  lovely,  and  her 
thought  that  moment  drove  like  an  arrow  into  my  brain. 
...  I  see  the  two  pairs  together,  strangely  blended  in  dust 
and  twilight — grumbling. 

Of  Mary  Romany  I  could  always  write  and  dream. 
The  maid  of  Oporto  was  integrated  into  my  character 
— a  part  of  all  thinking,  a  station  of  all  hopes,  and 


20  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

through  which,  hopes  passed  with  her  glow  upon  them, 
into  the  formative  future.  I  saw  the  great  dark  eyes, 
as  we  had  walked  together,  swum,  sailed  and  talked 
together,  straining  in  horror  over  the  cliff, — every  move 
ment  of  the  slender  animate  girl;  the  words  she  had 
spoken  and  the  kiss  upon  my  cheek — all  these  were 
fixed  in  the  life  of  me  and  replenished  from  each  day's 
strength. 

In  Hong  Kong  on  a  certain  afternoon,  I  was  loung 
ing  on  one  of  the  higher  terraced  roads  of  the  city.  A 
white  road  on  a  burning  but  humid  day;  a  foliaged 
declivity  to  the  terrace  below ;  and  rising  on  the  right — 
the  villas,  arbors,  and  gardens  of  another  and  fairer 
terrace.  A  yellow  silk  parasol  below  was  a  concentra 
tion  of  the  brilliant  light.  The  face  was  concealed;  T 
could  not  have  known  the  figure  after  ten  changing 
years ;  yet  there  was  a  sudden  and  animate  consciousness 
of  Mary  Romany  coming  to  keep  a  tryst  with  me.  I 
had  thought  about  the  woman  almost  enough  to  ma 
terialize  an  illusion. 

Old  in  the  world's  ways,  I  had  sometimes  felt;  yet 
I  was  new  as  Adam  in  the  presence  of  her.  Something 
deeper  than  brain  tried  to  grasp  the  spirit  of  her,  but 
failed.  I  was  far  from  ready  for  that.  Dismay  and 
joy  mingled  in  her  eyes.  Everything  about  her  was  a 
new  and  surpassing  mystery  wrought  of  the  years.  She 
was  not  as  I  had  expected  in  any  feature — lovelier  past 
a  doubt.  Frail,  she  was,  not  very  tall;  and  there  was 
back  of  her  dark  eyes  a  starlight,  or  the  glow  of  a 
beacon  on  a  far  lonely  hill.  My  words  do  not  describe 
the  exact  look,  but  only  suggest  the  spirit  of  that  high 
and  solitary  shining,  the  meaning  to  me,  too  deep  to 
define.  There  was  a  wildness  in  that  remote  burning, 


Yellow  River  21 

as  if  it  had  risen  and  fallen,  but  never  expired,  in  some 
sunless  wilderness;  as  if  her  mind  brought  forth  its 
fruits  among  the  crags,  alone  with  the  wind  and  the 
rain  and  the  universe  of  night. 

She  searched  my  face  for  a  breathless  second — then 
turned  away  her  eyes.  I  was  imbued  with  the  presence 
of  her,  the  frailness  that  placed  her  apart  in  my 
thoughts  among  the  perfections;  the  indefinable  fresh 
ness  and  texture  always  identified  with  fruit-blooms ;  and 
over  all  was  the  swift  replenishment  of  her  ancient, 
mysterious  attraction.  All  the  elements  of  my  life  seemed 
to  stretch  out  and  breathe,  each  need  finding  in  her, 
vitality  in.  volumes.  I  perceive  in  the  writing  about  her, 
the  old  youthful  emotionalism  of  that  moment.  My 
mind  seized  and  held  that  first  fearless  intent  look  of 
hers,  after  recognition  had  dawned,  and  the  smile  that 
lost  its  purport  as  she  searched  among  the  inner  dimen 
sions  of  my  being — then  turned  away.  It  returns  now, 
her  shaded  thrilling  face,  her  hand  outstretched  in  the 
splendid  light. 

Already  I  was  depressed  by  an  inexplicable  forebod 
ing  that  our  time  together  was  but  a  matter  of  moments. 
It  stopped  my  words.  I  was  incapable  of  reflection, 
clumsy-headed  as  a  boy.  The  commanding  desire  to 
take  her  to  some  place  unknown  to  distractions,  some 
place  of  illimitable  leisure,  perished  among  its  own 
pangs.  .  .  .  We  had  halted  at  the  railing  which  edged 
the  terrace,  and  the  descent  reminded  her  of  the  cliffs 
at  Oporto. 

"  Please  don't  dive  over  now,  will  you — to  show 
that  you  are  not  afraid." 

A  man  doesn't  remember  that  never  was  woman  dis 
appointed,  nor  romance  spoiled,  because  his  emotions 


22  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

suddenly  whirl-pooled  in  her  presence.  It  is  one  of  the 
sorry  exposures  of  self-consciousness  that  he  feels  him 
self  lost  and  desperate  when  words  fail.  I  was  bereft  of 
all  that  had  happened  since  Oporto.  I  stood  looking  at 
her  raptly,  my  usual  faculties  and  features  undone. 

"  I  have  played  much  with  boys — since  we  left  you 
at  Oporto,"  I  managed  to  say. 

"  But  tell  me,  what  have  .you  been  doing  all  these 
years — some  big  world's  work  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  just  been  wandering  about,  studying 
men  and  waiting  for  to-day." 

She  came  a  step  closer,  a  swift-passing  eagerness  in 
her  eyes.  "  What  do  you  mean — waiting  for  to-day  ?  " 

It  all  might  have  been  different.  It  was  here  I 
faltered,  already  afraid  of  my  poor  boldness.  Perversely, 
my  brain  caught  at  an  old  Oporto  memory. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  I  questioned,  laughing  con 
fusedly,  " — oh,  but  you  didn't  hear  it — what  your 
mother  told  me  about  girls  asking  questions  to  hear 
what  boys  would  say  ?  " 

Mary  Romany  had  been  brave  enough  to  challenge 
me  for  the  truth.  My  part  was  inconceivably  dull.  She 
smiled,  and  after  a  moment  asked  about  my  father,  as 
we  turned  down  the  walk  to  the  next  terrace.  I  men 
tioned  the  month  and  year  of  his  death  in  Petersburg. 
She  halted  and  caught  my  arm. 

"  My  mother  died  within  the  same  fortnight.  .  .  . 
He  always  seemed  noble  to  me — your  father." 

It  appeared  obvious  now  to  express  the  deep  reality 
of  her  mother's  attraction,  as  I  knew  it,  so  I  did  not 
answer.  Even  this  is  miserable  to  remember.  ...  In  the 
hall  of  the  International,  we  passed  the  music-room,  and 
I  asked  about  her  playing.  It  was  all  I  could  think  of, 
those  old  things  of  Oporto. 


Yellow  River  23 

"  Many  periods — for  months  at  a  time — I  have  been 
away  from  a  piano,"  she  said,  "  so  my  studying  has  been 
intermittent.  .  .  .  But  I'll  gladly  play  for  a  few  minutes 
if  you  like.  I  must  join  my  father  very  soon." 

"Is  he  in  Hong  Kong?" 

"  Yes.    We  are  leaving  to-night." 

I  did  not  hear  the  music  steadily.  The  new  going 
away  had  stricken  me.  Though  I  had  always  listened 
for  the  name  of  Romany,  I  wondered  now  how  I  could 
have  passed  the  recent  years,  other  than  in  aggressive 
search  for  her. 

I  seem  to  remember  the  colors  of  that  music — the 
deep  mild  purity  of  the  beginning  and  a  sudden  rocket 
of  pearls.  Then  the  pervading  white  of  a  human  attach 
ment  changing  to  red  in  my  mind,  a  passionate  desire 
unfulfilled — and  from  it  all  came  a  gray  cold  melan 
choly  that  awed  me  in  its  utterness,  and  enhanced  finally 
into  a  majestic  bereavement.  ...  In  Tibet,  I  had  wanted 
music  as  some  men  want  wine.  It  was  not  necessary 
for  me  to  speak  when  she  had  finished.  She  turned 
again  to  the  piano  and  played  an  early  Romance  by 
Tschaikowsky.  It  was  another  parting,  and  there  was 
a  mocking  bitterness  about  the  breaking  in  of  the  sol 
diers — loud  and  pitiless  and  empty — and  then  the  woman 
was  alone,  crooning  over  the  broken  theme  of  the  part 
ing,  and  upon  her  crooning  came  the  hideous  soldiery 
motif  repeated,  though  faintly  from  a  distance.  The 
thing  was  rending  in  its  sweetness  and  tragedy. 

Mary  Romany  regarded  me  for  a  second.  •"  That's 
very  strange,"  she  said. 

I  waited  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  I  never  played  those  two  things  together  before, 
that  I  know  of;  and  yet,  they  are  both  in  the  same 
key — Chopin's  F  Minor  Concerto,  of  which  I  played 


24  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  Lar ghetto  and  this  Russian  Romance.  ...  It  must 
be  our  key " 

The  windows  of  the  music-room  faced  the  harbor. 
It  was  twilight  in  the  city,  but  afternoon  out  to  sea 
beyond  the  shadow  of  the  mountain.  Her  profile  seemed 
to  reflect  a  touch  of  that  far  waning  light,  and  to  me 
every  line  of  feature  accentuated  the  volumes  of  tem 
perament  of  which  her  eyes  burned  intimations.  She 
was  distraught.  I  started  to  speak,  but  she  was  before 
me,  her  gaze  lost  in  the  light  beyond  the  water-front  and 
the  ship-crowded  shadows. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  have  been  dreaming  these  ten  years  ? 
.  .  .  And  so  you,  too,  have  wandered  about  the  world? 
We  seem  to  be  creatures  of  ships,  forever  sailing — a 
world  of  winds  and  coasts  and  ports — all  alien— 7in  a  sort 
of  F  Minor  enchantment " 

"  And  to-night  you  are  sailing,  Mary  Romany ?  " 

"  Yes — and  I  must  go  to  my  father  now.  We  are 
on  the  way  to  Shanghai  and  far  up  the  river.  Father 
has  a  new  interest  deep  in  the  country." 

"  But  won't  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  I  shall  try  to  come  here  for  a  few  minutes  after 
dinner " 

"  Thank  you — but  in  China,  in  the  world,  won't  I  see 
you  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but " 

An  angular  giant,  pale-faced,  of  imperious  profile, 
strode  past  through  the  hall. 

"  My  father,"  she  whispered.  "  I'll  go  to  him  now 
— and  come  here,  if  I  can — just  after  dinner." 

She  was  gone. 


Yellow  River  25 


FOR  a  long  time  I  have  been  sitting  here,  trying  to 
picture  in  words  what  those  two  hours  (until  dinner 
was  over)  meant  to  me.  I  remember  hearing  voices, 
but  not  words;  hearing  and  smelling  China  as  the  stars 
cleared  oversea ;  somewhere  behind  the  hotel,  an  English 
man  caned  his  rickshaw-coolie — but  with  none  of  these 
matters  had  I  any  direct  relation.  Mine  was  just  a 
child's  unquestioning  receptivity  to  impressions.  The 
whole  man,  Thomas  Ryerson,  was  transfixed  in  hope 
less  horror  at  the  thought  of  Mary  Romany  going 
away.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  ask  for  anything.  It 
did  not  seem  that  she  wanted  me  to  follow  her.  I  did 
not  count  it  strange  that  she  had  failed  to  introduce  me 
to  her  father.  I  was  afraid  of  myself  with  her,  as  I  had 
never  been  with  another  living  creature. 

All  was  the  result  of  this  realization :  She  has  found 
me  less  than  she  hoped ;  the  man  has  spoiled  her  memory 
of  the  boy.  Shame  and  self-hatred  surged  through  me 
as  I  recalled  the  years.  She  had  not  missed  upon  my 
face  the  absence  of  achievement. 

There  was  no  rivaling  ambition  in  my  nature  to 
temper  the  force  of  romance.  Most  men  have  their 
relation  to  the  world  firmly  established  at  twenty-five. 
Failing  in  a  certain  love  they  can  fall  back  upon  their 
work.  There  was  no  such  sound  bridge  of  life-interest 
for  the  dilettante  which  I  had  been. 

I  haunted'  the  halls,  while  the  guests  moved  in  and 
out  of  the  dinner-room.  When  Mary  Romany  came 
toward  me  from  a  far  stair-way,  a  film  wavered  before 
my  eyes.  The  tans  and  browns  of  the  lamp-lit  hall 


26  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

seemed  an  endless  intervention, — one  of  the  dusty  waste 
places  of  the  earth,  stretching  between  my  heart  and 
her  hill. 

The  music-room  was  unlit.  She  crossed  to  the 
piano.  No  word  had  been  spoken.  .  .  .  How  many  men, 
I  wonder,  have  stood  behind  their  love-lady  thus — in  a 
darkened  room?  But  the  world's  drawn  sword  was 
between  us.  ...  Waiting  for  a  train,  a  voice,  a  tele 
gram,  for  someone's  step,  I  am  restless  and  uncentred, 
held  in  the  concentration  of  passing  time.  This  meeting 
of  ours,  so  vital  in  possibility,  so  intensely  formative,  a 
thousand  things  to  say — and  yet,  I  was  tranced  before 
the  inevitable  moment  in  which  she  would  leave  the 
room.  What  an  agony  altogether  is  ardor,  before  it  be 
comes  love  of  the  soul. 

I  saw  the  contour  of  her  shoulder  in  the  shadow, 
as  vision  grew  penetrative  in  the  dark.  I  wanted  to 
kiss  the  seam  of  her  dress  just  there,  but  I  remembered 
her  disappointment  in  me.  She  played  a  little — some 
thing  from  that  same  colorful  perfect  thing  of  the  after 
noon.  Almost,  for  an  instant,  the  playing  broke  the 
self-consciousness  in  which  was  locked  my  heart's  truth. 
A  suffusion  of  orange  light  filled  the  place.  I  leaned 
toward  her  in  the  wonders  of  emancipation,  but  Chopin's 
mood  changed  under  her  hands.  Passion  turned  to 
melancholy.  The  Master's  soul  had  seen  the  nakedness 
of  desire;  and  in  a  storm  of  majestic  sorrow,  turned 
upon  the  artist  from  the  inner  life  of  things,  he  had 
suddenly  become  a  voice  of  the  shallow  potencies  of 
flesh.  .  .  . 

She  arose  and  walked  to  the  window.  I  do  not 
know  how  long,  but  there  was  cruel  silence.  Again 
and  again  our  gaze  turned  from  the  harbor,  to  each 


Yellow  River  27 

other.  Once  I  caught  the  starry  surface-lustre  of  her 
eyes  as  she  turned.  ...  A  missionary  was  intoning  in  a 
low  monotonous  way  on  the  richness  of  the  Scriptures. 
His  low  fluency  became  a  part  of  the  silence.  His 
thoughts  merely  stirred  the  old  puzzles  of  childhood. 
At  another  time  I  would  have  been  amazed  at  the  bleak 
ness  of  his  orthodoxy.  His  thoughts  were  but  sage 
brush  of  the  barrens.  I  forgot  him  for  intervals,  as  I 
forgot  the  harbor-lights  and  the  slopes  to  the  water 
front. 

So  near  Mary  Romany  stood.  I  heard  her  breathing, 
and  the  beating  of  her  heart.  And  yet  we  had  no  words. 
At  the  end  of  my  days,  I  shall  count  those  among  the 
most  dramatic  of  life  moments.  .  .  .  Something  the 
missionary  said  now  changed  from  an  imperceptible 
tugging  to  a  sharp  irritation,  and  his  listener,  in  a  low 
admirable  voice,  slightly  alien,  exclaimed  wearily : 

"  My  dear  Elder,  you  choose  beauty  that  is  clouded, 
and  strength  that  is  cruel — listen: 

" '  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  there  we  sat  down,  yea, 
we  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion.  We  hanged  our 

harps  upon  the  willows '  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  can't  you 

see  that  is  beauty?  .  .  .  'For  they  that  carried  us  away 
captive — required  of  us  a  song,  and  they  that  wasted  us 

required  of  us  mirth ' ' 

*    "  How  strangely  perfect,"  Mary  Romany  whispered. 

The  mystic  beauty  of  the  words  brought  me  close 
to  her  heart,  as  for  an  instant  the  romantic  spell  of 
Chopin  had  done,  but  a  step  in  the  hall  disordered  all 
— a  light  and  agile  step,  with  a  queer  ill-balance  about 
it.  The  end  had  come. 

"  But  in  China,  in  the  world,  won't  I  see  you  again, 
Mary  Romany  ?  " 


28  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

She  caught  my  face  between  her  hands,  drew  my 
lips  to  hers.  "  Oh,  Ryerson-boy,  I  cannot  forget  you. 
.  .  .  Yes,  sometime  again  we  shall  come  together — when 
we  have  each  done  our  work " 

The  step  had  neared  very  quickly.  The  figure  now 
obtruded  in  the  door-way — and  drew  us  to  the  light.  .  .  . 
A  tall  delicate*  youth  with  a  high  white  forehead,  black 
wavy  hair,  and  a  fresh  red  mouth.  His  slender  figure 
swayed  strangely,  as  if  shod  in  moccasins.  So  real  was 
this  impression  that  I  glanced  at  the  black  polished 
leather  of  his  boots.  There  was  hard  glitter  about  his 
eyes,  something  bird-like  about  the  whole  being,  or  better 
yet,  something  of  a  satyr,  brilliant  emptiness.  Nothing 
from  me  went  to  him,  and  nothing  came,  as  our  eyes 
crosse^d..  I  heard  the  name  "  Santell,"  and  touched  a 
limp  moist  hand.  Mary  Romany's  face  was  flushed ;  her 
hand  held  out  to  me. 

"  Come  on,  Mary,"  Santell  said  in  a  thin  queer  voice. 

She  was  gone,  but  something  sustained  me.  My 
emotions  were  burned  out;  old  weary  forces  were  gone 
from  the  heart;  yet  a  new  breath  of  life  had  come.  I 
hastened  out  of  the  hotel,  and  up  the  road  toward  the 
terraces — the  spirit  of  youth  in  my  limbs.  ...  I  could 
live.  I  could  alter  all  life.  Anguish  of  separation  could 
not  conquer  this  sustaining,  the  unknowable  of  Mary 
Romany,  nor  the  mystery  of  Santell.  Only  once  in  a 
man's  life  such  a  kiss  comes. 

The  moon  looked  over  the  mountain.  So  little  of 
flesh  did  I  seem,  that  I  was  sure  I  could  climb  a  moon 
beam,  straight  to  those  silvered  peaks. 


Yellow  River  .  29 


THAT  night  from  the  terraces  I  watched  her  liner 
swing  around  the  point,  into  East  Lamma  Channel,  then 
put  out  into  the  roadstead  beyond  the  islands.  I  may 
have  slept  an  hour.  Even  in  the  cold  straight  seeing 
which  comes  with  the  morning,  there  was  an  invincible 
property  in  Mary  Romany's  kiss.  I  have  been  with 
men  when  their  hearts  were  tested,  when  the  icy  dews 
of  death  were  falling,  when  men  became  bodies.  None 
of  these  things  moved  me  as  that  mystery  of  the  music- 
room.  Death — how  cheap  and  common  compared  to 
the  eternal  youth  of  that  bestowal.  There  is  one  kiss 
which  anoints  a  boy  with  manhood. 

A  cup  of  tea  at  nine  (my  mind  far  on  the  passage 
to  Shanghai),  when  from  the  piazza,  I  heard  the  voice 
that  had  uttered  the  "  rivers  of  Babylon  "  the  night  be 
fore.  The  owner  of  that  quiet  and  compelling  voice 
was  Chinese.  There  he  stood,  laughingly  giving  the 
day's  orders  to  his  servant.  There  was  a  finish  upon 
him  which  I  had  never  seen  upon  another  man  of 
any  country.  I  called  through  the  lattice,  inquiring  if 
he  would  join  me.  Yes,  he  would  be  pleased  to. 

"  Standing  by  the  window  of  the  music-room  last 
night,"  I  said,  "  your  talk  with  the  church-man  inter 
ested  me;  not  his  recitative,  but  your  answer."  I  added 
that  I  had  never  been  able  to  read  those  stanzas  with 
out  a  quickened  pulse. 

In  the  next  half-hour  I  found  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  others  of  the  eternal  scriptures — Chinese,  Hindu, 
Persian,  and  the  Greek  philosophies,  as  well  as  the 
Hebrew  Bible.  Be  assured,  his  gathering  of  knowledge 


SO  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

was  in  no  way  obtrusive.  He  was  not  spent  from 
these  nurtures.  His  mind  seemed  infinite  with  leisure 
and  poise.  .  .  .  Yuan  Kang  Su  was  thirty  years  old. 
He  had  passed  seven  years  with  his  mother;  twenty 
years  in  school;  a  year  in  London;  a  year  in  Japan; 
and  this  last,  in  the  Chinese  cities.  He  was  going 
shortly  to  Shanghai  and  up  the  river  to  his  home  for  a 
final  respite — before  receiving  his  really  important 
assignment,  probably  to  America.  Something  told  me 
presently  that  it  would  be  hard  to  resist  going  up  the 
river  with  Yuan  Kang  Su. 

We  passed  the  first  of  many  days  together.  He 
knew  affairs  over  in  Luzon  far  better  than  I,  an 
American.  His  information  that  day  was  the  first 
breath  I  received  of  the  Boxer  uprising,  on  in  full  blast 
five  weeks  later.  Yuan  told  me  of  Japan — Japan  as  a 
fighting  nation.  A  queer  sound  was  this  to  a  foreigner 
in  that  day.  He  spoke  English,  as  he  wore  European 
clothing,  with  taste  and  perfection  of  detail.  It  was  so 
with  his  French.  I  faltered  over  the  German;  Yuan 
did  not. 

Gradually,  it  appeared  what  those  years  of  school 
in  China,  from  eight  to  twenty-eight,  meant;  indeed, 
what  it  meant  to  belong  to  the  elect  of  the  literati  of  the 
Chinese.  His  culture  is  hardly  in  the  conception  of 
the  western  world.  Something  of  all  matters  he  had 
learned — from  the  deeps  to  the  skies;  and  struggled, 
as  all  thinking  men  have  done  in  all  times,  to  establish 
connection  between  his  soul  and  Beyond.  The  Chinese 
nobility  do  not  study  in  competitive  spirit.  In  classes  of 
three  and  four,  one's  own  genius  of  individuality  is  stim 
ulated.  Yuan  smiled  tenderly  as  he  told  me  of  the  mild- 


Yellow  River  31 

natured  old  professors  who  had  beamed  upon  him  for  so 
many  years  over  their  shell-rimmed  glasses. 

"  To  be  viceroy,  they  would  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  one 
needs  only  a  little  extra  power  of  concentration." 

I  never  tired  of  Yuan's  finely-tempered  mind.  No 
one  knows  so  well  as  I,  the  giant  thoughts  that  lay 
coiled  there,  nor  the  zeal  which  was  his,  to  leave  the 
mark  of  his  life,  pure  upon  his  country.  He  wanted 
nothing  for  himself.  This  is  not  a  rash  saying,  but  a 
realization.  You  will  understand.  Perhaps  you  will 
understand  how  much  it  means.  We  of  the  western 
world  are  not  quick  to  discern  a  patriot.  Among  us, 
a  fellow-countryman  must  die  to  show  us  what  means 
this  giving  of  self. 

Out  of  the1  studious  quiet  of  the  academy,  and  the 
flowery  stillness  of  his  hills  in  Yung  tung  (Province  of 
the  Cloudy  East),  Yuan  had  set  forth  to  study  the 
world,  the  fruits  of  which  had  been  learned  from  books, 
and  to  bring  back  to  Mother  China  the  best  of  the 
modern  hour. 

His  detachment  from  China  was  taking  place,  and 
with  pain.  A  man  must  needs  be  detached  in  order 
to  see.  Already  his  memories  amounted  to  a  passion. 
They  were  like  still,  dead  centuries — the  old  years  of 
study.  It  was  night  when  he  told  me  these  things,  and 
we  were  in  the  Shansi's  gardens  on  the  sloping  brow 
of  Victoria  peak.  So  intensely  did  Yuan  speak  that 
the  darkness  about  me  filled  with  pictures  and  scents 
and  sounds — ravines  which  held  the  tinkle  of  water; 
hills  which  breathed  a  perfume  of  yellow  lilies;  the 
mother-place  in  the  heart  of  the  great  house;  the  old 
men  who  had  girded  his  mind  and  soul ;  the  revered  and 
father  who  had  energized  all. 


32  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Between  men  who  are  to  be  real  friends  there  must 
first  of  all  be  broken  down  a  racial  incompatibility.  It 
is  very  clear  to  most,  that  the  East  and  West  cannot 
be  one  in  spirit.  Yet  a  day  was  enough  for  us,  and  I 
am  writing  now  far  from  the  first  flush  of  friendship. 
We  were  men  together. 

Yuan  was  not  tall,  and  looked  'rather  muscular 
when  dressed.  I  speak  of  this  because  we  bathed  in 
the  surf,  before  the  chateau  of  the  Russian  embassy, 
a  day  or  two  later,  and  I  was  struck  by  the  superb  figure 
of  the  man.  His  flesh  was  of  an  inanimate  white ;  each 
dry  black  hair  of  his  head  seemed  lacquered,  and  his 
deep  brown  eyes  had  the  peculiarity  of  appearing  behind 
a  faint  veil  of  mist.  They  made  me  think  of  black  tea 
steaming  in  crystal.  His  mouth  and  teeth  were  perfect 
in  charm  and  boyishness.  Yuan  wore  no  queue,  and 
laughed  when  I  asked  about  this.  It  was  long  after 
ward  that  I  learned  of  the  exemption  of  certain  de 
partments  of  the  secret  service.  Many  thought  him 
Japanese.  .  .  .  There  was  much  beside  the  world's 
religions  and  philosophies  in  that  bald  brow  of  his. 

A  week  later,  we  were  sailing  northward  together, 
and  I  had  told  Yuan  the  great  thing.  There  would  be 
little  trouble,  he  said,  in  ascertaining  the  nature  of 
Romany's  venture  up  the  Yang  tse.  That  could  be 
learned  in  Shanghai.  What  my  Oriental  companion 
had  done  for  me  cannot  be  appraised.  His  brilliance, 
but  more,  the  clear  quality  of  friendship  (which  asked 
nothing,  and  whose  only  eagerness  was  to  give),  filled 
the  hard  days  with  fineness  and  strength. 

"  It's  a  strange  experience  for  me — this  proximity 
to  romance,"  he  said,  when  we  were  within  a  day  of 
Woosung.  "I  feel  it,  and  it  makes  me  restless.  You 


Yellow  River  33 

are  purely  a  romantic  principle.  In  the  first  place, 
you  are  not  American,  not  English,  not  Oriental, — 
you  are  something  of  all,  but  altogether  of  none.  You 
are  a  lover  without  a  country.  I  am  a  patriot  without 
a  love-lady—' — " 

"  Restless  ?"  I  repeated. 

"Restless  for  great  deeds." 

And  then  he  seemed  to  divine  my  question,  for  he 
went  on : 

No,  I  shall  never  know  the  one  great  woman,  as 
do.  If  I  finish  my  work  early,  I  might  go  home 
and  take  a  wife.  But  our  women  do  not  know  the 
world.  China  has  a  man's  way  of  being  afraid  of 
women's  morality.  Men  feel  a  morbid  responsibility 
about  saving  woman  from  herself.  Our  women  are 
flowers  of  the  lattice — or  rich  nursery  earth.  They  are 
man's  idea  of  women.  A  man  cannot  be  enamoured 
of  his  own  idea.  Oh,  they  are  lovely  enough.  One 
goes  to  their  world,  as  to  an  orchard  for  refreshment. 
But  I — I  would  want  my  woman  to  come  to  me  from 
across  the  seas  and  plains  and  mountains — with  their 
tests  upon  her,  and  her  triumphs.  I  would  want  her 
to  turn  to  me,  not  because  she  must — but  because  she 
has  seen  the  world  and  I  am  best  to  her  of  it  all." 

Always  I  saw  pictures  when  Yuan  forgot  his  brain 
and  talked  from  his  sumptuous  inner  life. 

"  We  Chinese — are  so  damnably  self-conscious  about 
a  woman's  sinning,"  he  resumed  mildly,  and  added  in  a 
way  so  naive  that  I  would  have  looked  for  humor  in 
another :  "  You  know,  to  be  really  great,  a  woman 
must  be  given  a  chance  to  do  her  own  sinning." 

He  was  deeply  interested  in  my  mother  and  father; 
in  the  queer  far-off  incident  of  Mary  Romany's  mother 


34  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

embracing  me — and  what  came  to  me  from  it.  ... 
This  was  Yauan's  first  thought:  that  men  cannot  fully 
ignite  one  another,  mind  and  spirit — that  man  and 
woman  must  meet  in  mid-stream  and  go  on  together 
against  the  stream — that  they  must  bring  their  different 
lives  to  bear  in  one  strength — a  union  of  force  and 
divination,  completing  between  them  each  thought  and 
action,  and  never  coming  to  the  end  of  each  other. 

"  We  do  not  give  our  women  life,  and  so  we  do 
not  get  life  from  them — just  the  play  and  prattle  of 
children.  It  would  seem  to  me  to  make  a  God  of  a 
man — to  be  loved  by  -a  great  finished  woman.  .  .  .  No, 
it  is  not  personal,  this  talk — just  the  atmosphere  of 
you.  Romance  is  not  for  me.  My  mistress  is  the 
terrible  old  woman  whose  arteries  run  brown  with 
earth — and  color  the  sea,  as  now." 

Our  ship  had  reached  the  Woosung  roadstead,  and 
the  water  was  fouled  with  the  Yang  tse. 

Much  had  he  made  me  forget,  that  the  sight  of 
the  big  river-mouth  brought  back.  I  looked  up  the 
brown  shore,  among  the  shipping  in  the  broad  gate 
way  and  beyond.  The  thought  that  came  first  and 
sharply  (though  Mary  Romany  was  the  plane  and 
substance  of  every  idea)  was  that  I  should  learn  the 
meaning  of  Santell  up  that  yellow  river — Santell,  who 
had  said  so  authoritatively,  "  Come  on,  Mary." 


6 

THE  Romanys  were  but  thirty  miles  away. 

"  By  going  up  the  river  with  me,"  Yuan  had  said, 
"  you  will  see  China,  not  the  bland  and  adaptable  China 
of  the  ports,  but  the  China  where  a  thousand  years  is 


Yellow  River  35 

as  a  day ;  the  China  that  was  here  almost  the  same  when 
your  Saint  Paul  was  Saul  of  Tarsus.  You  will  see 
river  and  hill-life,  and  a  people  fresh  from  the  mint 
of  time.  I  want  you  to  see  my  painted  rocks.  I  want 
you  to  see  my  house.  And  then  you  will  be  close  to 
her." 

Here  was  China  indeed — China  mountained,  ravined, 
remote,  eternal.  So  far  inland  was  Liu  chuan,  a  walled 
city  of  the  second-class  (across  the  Yang  tse  from  the 
estate  of  Yuan's  father)  that  the  great  river  had  not 
yet  left  her  gorges,  and  was  still  icy  from  the  mountain- 
snows  upon  which  she  fed.  Indeed  the  Tibetan  border 
was  little  farther  to  the  west  from  Liu  chuan,  than 
Hankow  to  the  east;  and  Hankow  is  six  hundred  miles 
up-stream  from  Shanghai.  Moreover,  miles  have  their 
seventeenth  century  meaning  in  this  old  land. 

The  foreign  colony  in  Liu  chuan  was  small  in 
numbers,  a  few  Germans  in  the  tea  and  silver  trade, 
and  an  American  Mission.  I  had  agreed  to  spend  some 
time  with  Yuan  at  his  father's  house,  but  could  not 
bring  myself  to  take  up  indefinite  lodgings  there. 
Accordingly,  I  was  across  the  river  more  or  less,  at 
the  Rest  House  in  Liu  chuan.  This  troubled  my 
Chinese  friend,  but  his  courtesy  was  too  clear  in  quality 
for  him  to  obtrude  his  will  upon  another. 

At  the  Rest  House  I  met  Huntoon,  a  big-nosed 
young  man,  and  American.  At  first  glance,  I  thought 
there  was  coldness  in  the  blue  eye.  This  impression 
did  not  return,  but  something  rakish,  yet  of  keen  value, 
instead.  He  was  jovial  even  in  his  passion.  Yuan 
for  Mother  China;  I  for  a  woman — and  Huntoon  for 
Scotch  whiskey.  There  was  no  drink  on  him  now.  It 
wasn't  the  faint  map-coloring  of  that  expansive  nose 


36  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

that  made  me  know,  but  something  from  the  manner. 
...  I  asked  him,  as  one  does  in  a  Chinese  river-town, 
if  he  were  going  up  or  down. 

"  I  live  here." 

I  looked  back  at  the  Wall  of  the  native  city — with 
the  low  mounds  of  outcast  dead,  like  bear-burrows,  all 
along  the  river-side;  at  the  mean  shrunken  foreign 
quarter,  and  the  dim  gouges  to  the  water's  edge,  natural 
erosions  to  begin  with,  which  the  Chinese  had  straight 
ened  and  deepened  from  the  cliffs  to  the  stream;  the 
rocky  walls  polished  by  ages  of  rubbing  hands  and 
shoulders,  as  was  the  path  by  naked  human  feet. 

"  No.  I'm  not  in  trade  or  official  business.  My  work 
is  fighting.  Liu  chuan  is  home.  I've  been  back  here 
off  and  on  for  ten  years.  Stayed  longer  this  time  than 
ever  before — good  or  bad  sign,  as  you  like." 

He  was  smiling  quietly  at  my  interest.  The  Orient 
had  cut  into  his  face  a  little — the  slow  life  of  false 
stimulation  which  bites  into  the  very  nature  of  a  man 
of  the  Western  world,  bred  for  swifter  action.  It  was 
a  good  face,  if  not  a  masterful  one.  In  the  deepest 
sense,  he  accepted  his  lot.  Huntoon  came  from  quality, 
for  he  saw  what  he  was  and  laughed  at  it. 

"  St.  Louis — yes,  that's  the  old  town,"  he  told  me. 
"  They  were  thoughtful,  to  give  me  a  river  in  this. 
You  see,  I'm  on  remittance  here  in  Liu  chuan.  They 
treated  me  too  well  when  I  was  a  cub  at  home.  When  I 
started  to  grow  a  mane — it  looked  to  them  as  if  I  was 
messing  things.  Fact  is,  I  did  mess  tilings.  They  stood 
it  as  long  as  they  could,  then  picked  out  a  place  by  a  river 
as  far  as  possible  from  St.  Louis — just  as  far  as  the 
planet  would  stand  for.  It's  a  toss-up  east  or  west  to 
Father's  house.  I  don't  have  to  stay  here,  of  course. 


Yellow  River  37 

I  get  strong  every  little  while  and  leave,  but  on  the 
tenth  day  of  each  month — there's  forty  pounds,  if  I'm 
here.  Once  I  stayed  away  three  years,  once  two,  at  a 
stretch.  I  must  have  come  home  tired  the  last  time. 
I've  been  here  a  year.  I  suppose  I'll  end  up  by  sitting 
down  for  good.  They  don't  need  the  money  back  home." 

He  was  inimitably  good-natured  about  it  all.  I 
watched  him  thoughtfully,  as  he  sprinkled  dry  tobacco 
from  a  cloth  bag  to  brown  paper,  rolled  it  in  his  left 
hand,  and  sheltered  the  match  from  the  wind  in  the 
sliding  cover  of  the  box.  We  leaned  back  against  the 
bricks  of  the  Rest  House,  keeping  as  much  as  possible 
in  the  yard  of  shade  which  the  late  hour  of  forenoon 
allowed.  He  told  of  frost  and  flame,  of  war  to  the 
knife,  and  of  riding  hard. 

I  noted  pock-marks  faintly,  a  flange  of  ear  and 
nostril  that  had  been  frozen,  a  ruffle  of  scar-tissue  about 
his  throat.  The  strong  noon  light  brought  out  these 
matters.  Huntoon's  was  a  pigeon-breast,  a  cadet's 
waist;  a  short  brown-stained  hand,  and  a  thick  thigh, 
bulging  with  saddle-muscles.  He  didn't  weigh  more 
than  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  Soft  as  he  was,  I 
saw  that  few  men  could  have  carried  out  cleanly  an 
assignment  to  give  him  a  beating.  One  of  those  terrific 
physical  men,  this  Huntoon,  who  feel  so  good  after  a 
week  or  two  of  decent  living,  that  they  become  dangerous 
to  the  community. 

Up,  out  of  one  of  the  deep  cuts  from  the  river, 
Yuan  Kang  Su  now  came;  and  along  the  bluff  another 
figure  approached — a  woman  in  white,  under  a  slanting 
parasol,  a  shade  or  two  more  orange  than  the  sunlight. 
The  town  looked  less  shameless,  with  my  friend  and 
the  white  woman  coming.  Huntoon  and  I  arose. 


38  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Yuan  was  first  to  reach  us.  He  had  met  Huntoon, 
who  now  casually  waited  to  greet  the  lady.  The  slant 
ing  parasol  was  close  enough  to  obliterate  the  estates 
of  Yuan's  father,  and  an  entire  mountain  range  across 
the  river,  before  it  was  tilted  for  the  face  to  appear. 
I  heard  a  peculiar  catch  in  the  throat  of  Yuan  Kang 
Su.  Huntoon  had  stepped  forward,  and  now  turned 
to  present  "  Miss  Forbes  of  the  Mission." 

A  gray-eyed  young  woman  with  a  calm,  rather  large 
face,  a  queer  little  slope  to  her  shoulders,  as  one  used 
to  carrying  children.  It  must  have  been  because  I 
liked  her  voice  that  I  looked  again.  The  heat  had 
ripened  her  pale  cheek  into  a  delicate  attraction.  Her 
hair  was  brown,  and  bound  a  bit  tightly,  or  perhaps 
I  thought  of  this  afterward.  I  was  not  especially  critical 
nor  absorbed.  She  had  greeted  me  and  turned  to  Yuan. 
Now  the  gray  eyes  widened,  and  her  lips,  which  had 
seemed  the  sort  to  go  with  the  Mission,  softened  and 
parted. 

One  of  the  prettiest  things,  of  a  purely  exterior 
kind,  ever  enacted — that  meeting  was  to  me.  I  had 
not  really  felt  the  woman's  entity  until  she  looked  at 
Yuan.  Perhaps  her  spirit  was  repressed,  the  spirit  of 
a  plain  woman  accustomed  to  repress  itself.  Now  the 
sun  seemed  to  drench  her  brow  through  the  orange 
silk.  And  the  contours  of  her  neck  and  shoulder  and 
chin,  and  temple  took  on  a  sudden  exquisite  lustre  from 
the  noon-day.  That  which  had  been  plain  was  poig 
nantly  feminine — not  beautiful  at  all — but  mysterious 
and  glowing  and  empowered. 

I  thought  for  a  moment  they  must  have  met  in 
London  or  down  the  river — the  crude  worldiness  of  it. 
The  woman  was  strange  to  Yuan  in  this  life  as  she 


Yellow  River  39 

was  to  me.  These  were  old  souls  met  on  the  River- 
bank.  The  joy  of  witnessing  the  miracle  was  mine.  .  .  . 
The  face  of  Yuan  was  that  of  a  child  listening  to  a 
marvellous  story.  All  the  dreadful  age  of  his  race  was 
gone  from  it,  the  imperturbable  urbanity,  the  mask  of 
men  who  hold  the  secrets  of  nations.  All  that  I  had 
known  of  his  fineness  from  our  friendship,  was  there 
on  the  countenance;  and  I  had  not  penetrated  a  single 
curve  of  his  immobility  before.  .  .  .  Like  an  arrow 
the  joy  of  Mary  Romany  pierced  my  heart.  It  rose  into 
a  passion  that  moment — love  of  life  which  could  hold 
such  perfect  arrangements  as  this. 

At  last  I  looked  at  Huntoon.  The  lines  had  softened, 
the  character  of  feature  erased.  Drink  was  plainly 
there,  and  the  vile  mothering  of  the  East.  It  was  the 
cavernous  absorption  into  which  he  had  fallen.  Catch 
ing  my  glance,  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  answered 
it  with  a  quick  blaze  of  comprehension.  .  .  .  We  were 
alone  together  five  minutes  later;  for  the  other  two 
were  renewing  their  youth  among  the  graves  by  the 
City-wall.  We  watched  their  figures  recede  until  they 
gained  the  bluff,  stood  for  a  second  against  the  vivid 
day,  and  disappeared  behind  the  masonry.  I  tried  to 
recall  their  leaving  us.  There  had  been  no  words  about 
it.  The  invitation  and  acceptance  had  flashed  through 
some  metaphysical  artistry.  I  was  burning  to  penetrate 
this  rapturous  arcanum,  but  with  Huntoon  only  the 
physical  features  could  be  discussed.  Even  these  were 
rather  heavy. 

'  "  But  he's  a  Chinaman — "  he  said  for  the   second 
time. 

My  ears  filled  suddenly  with  the  world's  rumbling. 


40  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  He's  so  much  of  a  man  that  I  hadn't  thought  of 
that,"  said  I. 

"  But  people — "  The  Christian  was  upon  him,  which 
was  natural  enough. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Huntoon,"  said  I,  "  but  we  don't 
belong  to  the  people.  We're  friends  of  theirs.  Even 
we  don't  belong — only  to  do  them  good." 

"  That's  true — only  some  of  these  Chinos  have  a 
way  with  women — our  women — and  it  doesn't  turn  out 
good  for  the  women." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  I.  "  Anyway, 
we  have  nothing  to  say  about  it.  One  thing  you  don't 
understand,"  I  added,  irritated  at  his  fixity  and  my 
slipping  position,  "  this  Chinese  has  never  looked  twice 
at  a  woman — white,  yellow,  red  or  brown.  They  gave 
him  as  a  child  to  his  country,  as  they  gave  young  Samuel 
to  God.  That's  really  the  juice  of  the  present  episode." 

"  If  that's  so — I  never  saw  anything  like  it  before," 
said  Huntoon.  His  face  became  blurred  again. 

"  Nor  did  I.  You  have  to  happen  on  to  such  things. 
I  feel  like  an  old  traveler  who  has  emptied  the  jungle 
of  its  last  secret — found  a  water-hole  in  the  right  of 
the  moon  and  wind,  and  all  the  animals  came  down 
and  paraded.  .  .  .  Huntoon,  these  people  have  been 
lovers  before — on  the  Nile  and  Danube  and  Volga.  Per 
haps  they've  been  here  before — and  didn't  finish " 

He  mopped  his  brow,  and  I  laughed.  The  thing 
had  lifted  me.  One  moment  she  had  been  a  missionary, 
and  the  next — maid,  mother  and  saint — and  Yuan  rapt 
with  visions.  .  .  .  What  a  bondage  it  is — the  thrall  of 
the  feminine.  .  .  .  Huntoon  was  saying  things  which 
pertained : 

"  You'd   say  off-hand,   she   didn't  belong  here — too 


Yellow  River  41 

wise  to  circulate  at  the  Mission,  and  too  fine.  The 
fact  is,  she  knows  it's  silly  to  try  to  switch  Gods  on 
these  people,  but  she  helps  the  women  and  children. 
She  shows  them  how  to  be  healthy  and  clean,  and  leaves 
their  souls  alone,  except  for  making  them  love  her. 
She's  great  with  the  children.  ...  I  gave  her  an 
umbrella  once,  one  day  when  a  quick  cold  shower 
came  up.  And  another  day — remittance-day — I  was  a 
good  deal  under  and  whipped  a  coolie.  Seven  or  eight 
coolies  very  naturally  and  properly  undertook  to  kick 
me  to  death.  It  was  she  who  came  through  them — I 
don't  explain — but  they  stopped,  for  her.  Not  that  it 
would  have  been  important,  but  that  she  turned  the 
trick.  You  know,  as  deep  inland  as  we  are  here,  the 
Chinese  are  the  people.  You  can't  rough  them  here, 
as  you  do  down  among  the  ports.  I  was  limp  drunk. 
Wouldn't  you  think  she'd  refuse  to  know  me  after 
that?" 

I  didn't  see  this  clearly. 

"  Just  as  fine  as  ever — and  no  preaching,"  he  finished. 
"  Only  she  looked  at  me  as  if  she  were  sorry  whiskey 
picked  on  me  so." 

It  gradually  dawned  that  I  was  being  something 
of  a  brute.  Before  me  was  a  man,  long  on  the  frontier 
with  King  Alcohol,  yet  behaving  like  a  thoroughbred. 
There  had  been  many  walks  with  Miss  Jane  Forbes  on 
these  very  bluffs  at  even-tide.  The  same  clearly  had 
kept  him  in  Liu  chuan  so  long.  I  was  allowed  to  grasp 
the  fact  that  the  woman  had  incurred  the  displeasure 
of  the  Reverend  Goethe  Benson  (in  charge  of  .the 
Mission)  for  displaying  a  fellow-feeling  for  a  drunkard 
and  remittance-man ;  also  that  Huntoon  had  gone  a 
whole  month  clean.  They  had  talked  about  home — 


42  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

this  I  was  told  depreciatingly — when  China  rose  about 
them  like  a  suffocating  yellow  fog,  and  their  hearts 
cleaved  together  in  that  loneliness  which  can  only  be 
felt  by  young  white  people  in  the  heart  of  Asia.  I 
was  given  a  glimpse  of  the  winter  on  these  bluffs, 
the  east  winds,  alive  with  stinging  atoms  of  dust  and 
ice,  which  raced  across  the  low  hills,  over  the  walled 
city  and  the  river-escarpment  to  the  mountains  beyond 
Yuan's  lands ;  how  China  becomes  gray  like  a  leper, 
the  river  water  black  as  skull-sockets,  and  all  the  good 
sinking  from  the  human  heart  as  an  outgoing  ship 
slides  down  the  evening  horizon. 

And  always  Huntoon  spoke  impersonally  and  with 
a  low  laugh. 

.  .  .  Moreover,  I  was  made  to  see — that  all  at  the 
Mission  belonged  to  another  century,  except  this  woman : 
the  Reverend  Goethe  Benson,  exemplary,  pale-faced, 
cold-handed,  black-haired,  with  his  theory  that  soap 
caused  dandruff.  Old  Miss  Austin,  brown  and  bent 
and  calm-eyed,  who  had  been  in  China  twenty-five  years, 
a  brainless  saint  with  tireless  hands;  and  the  curiously 
out-of-place  Miss  Lamson,  soft,  large  young  creature, 
of  tears  and  errors  numberless,  holding  fast  to  the 
single  conviction  that  the  Reverend  Goethe  Benson  was 
as  Lebanon,  excellent  as  the  cedars  (and  whom  she  would 
have  married,  had  not  Jane  Forbes  come  to  spoil  it  all). 
According  to  Huntoon,  Jane  Forbes  saw  the  whole 
picture,  shades,  atmosphere,  and  distance;  she  knew 
that  the  Mission  in  Liu  chuan  was  not  building  for  the 
ages;  she  had  prayed  for  the  deathless  faith  of  Miss 
Austin  that  she  might  be  blind  to  the  truth. 

All  this  was  made  apparent,  before  Yuan  and  the 
woman  re-appeared  against  the  sky  at  the  corner  of  the 


Yellow  River  43 

Wall.  Clearest  of  all  was  that  Huntoon  had  lost  his 
comrade,  and  the  only  thing  that  made  life  possible  in 
Liu  chuan;  that  he  had  lost  her  without  hatred,  with  a 
laugh,  and  many  a  brave  utterance  on  her  quality. 

"  Of  course,  I  was  nothing  to  her,"  he  said  rising, 
and  the  "  was  "  came  rough  to  me.  "  She's  a  friend 
to  all  that's  down  and  soiled.  That's  how  I  belong " 

His  eye  turned  to  the  end  of  the  city  wall,  where 
the  two  were  just  perceptibly  approaching.  I  knew 
that  Huntoon  wished  it  hadn't  been  a  Chinaman  who 
had  healed  her  soul  of  the  gray  grind  of  the  Mission 
and  China.  For  he  had  already  granted,  as  I  had — 
that  Jane  Forbes  was  touched  with  enchantment. 
Huntoon's  lips  were  whitish  and  dry,  and  the  vitality 
was  gone  from  his  eyes.  He  clapped  his  hands  for 
a  China-boy.  A  drink  was  brought,  in  which  I  joined. 
I  would  have  drunk  vitriol  that  once  with  Huntoon. 

"  She  said  that  China  had  called  to  her  from  a 
little  girl — not  religion,  but  China.  Strange,  isn't  it?" 
he  asked. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  picture  Yuan  had  drawn  of 
the  woman  that  meant  woman  to  him — and  how  he  had 
made  the  old  hag,  Empire,  suffice  until  she  came. 


STRONGER  than  ever  before,  it  crept  upon  me  that 
afternoon — the  sense  of  having  lived.  I  was  humble, 
too,  for  uncovering  the  nobility  of  my  countryman. 
Huntoon  was  so  natural  in  his  open,  out-and-out  decency 
that  he  didn't  know  of  its  existence.  He  breathed 
effects.  They  were  of  him,  as  Jane  Forbes  was  feminine, 
as  a  real  artist  is  finished  without  being  self-conscious. 


44  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

A  spiritual  replenishment,  too,  had  come  from  that 
meeting  of  lovers.  The  handiwork  of  Jane  Forbes 
was  in  the  very  life  of  Liu  chuan,  like  a  delicate,  but 
strong  bit  of  needle-work  upon  an  ancient  fabric.  My 
life  seemed  better  ordered  for  knowing  her. 

And  Mary  Romany — I  would  look  up  the  river  such 
a  little  way.  My  mind  held  for  a  space  to  the  mystery 
of  three  lives — then  the  beauty  of  Mary  Romany  would 
rush  back,  like  the  fragrance  upon  awakening,  of  a 
flower  that  brings  back  memories  of  a  perfect  night. 
It  was  a  time  of  queer  indefinite  experiences.  Crossing 
the  river  early,  to  be  alone  with  Yuan  when  he  came, 
I  took  a  seat  well  forward  in  the  junk,  and  fell  to 
staring  down  upon  the  green  coiling  stream.  The  light 
and  depths  must  have  lured  me  to  that  crossing  be 
tween  sleep  and  waking,  where  the  psychic  visitants  are 
surprised  (as  from  the  tail  of  an  eye)  by  the  every 
day  brain.  The  sense  of  Mary  Romany's  presence  came 
to  me  in  a  poignant  way.  .  .  .  She  was  in  a  music-room 
of  my  own  making,  and  had  turned  from  the  piano  to 
smile  at  me.  Her  words  reached  me  as  a  ball  that 
breaks  open — the  sentence  as  a  single  syllable — "  Some 
time  we  shall  work  together  here."  There  was  an 
actual  contact  to  it — a  flutter  in  my  breast,  as  of  a  swift 
homing  flashing  into  its  cote. 

I  came  well  to  know  that  music-room — a  cool  dim 
place  in  a  country  of  solitude.  The  windows  were 
narrow  and  long,  from  floor  to  high  ceiling,  and  hung 
like  the  walls  in  some  misty  white,  softly  woven.  The 
woods  of  the  room  were  dark,  rich  from  age,  their 
subdued  shining  like  the  piano  and  the  woman's  eyes. 
Great  trees  shaded  the  windows  and  whispered,  and 
through  their  branches  could  be  seen  a  lake,  or  a 


Yellow  River  45 

river,  or  the  sea.  .  .  .  How  clearly  are  all  these  the 
properties  of  a  sentimentalist. 

Yuan  came  across  in  the  dusk  and  found  me  in 
his  rose-gardens.  There  was  one  kind  of  small  red 
rose,  that  gave  up  its  soul  when  the  dews  fell — a 
fragrance  delicious,  and  almost  sharp.  It  made  me 
think  of  a  singing  skylark,  such  an  outpouring,  as  if 
its  petals  must  fly  apart  from  rapturous  giving.  And  it 
tempered  the  cloying  sweetness  of  lilies  and  hyacinths. 
There  was  in  the  bloom  and  perfume  of  these  old  beds, 
the  perfection  of  ancient  vineyards,  where  from  long 
culture  the  soil  itself  seems  to  have  caught  the  spirit 
of  its  product,  like  the  grapes  of  Madeira,  the  pome 
granates  of  Persia,  the  honey-flowers  of  Hymettus.  .  .  . 
At  last  I  found  the  yellow  rose. 

"That's  the  Emperor,"  said  Yuan.  "Look  at  the 
thick  stalk  for  such  a  fragile  bloom.  There  is  in  the 
making  of  that  flower  the  aliment,  the  strength  of  soil, 
of  a  dozen  of  those  red  ones.  And  that  one  is  the  life- 
work  of  a  gardener.  Only  we  in  China  have  the 
patience  to  perfect  a  flower  like  that.  It  is  just  as  rich 
in  full  noon-day,  as  those  red  ones  are  now  in  the 
humid  dusk.  You  can  put  one  in  a  large  room,  and  get 
a  different  perfume  at  every  window.  Kneel  now  and 
breathe  it " 

I  obeyed.  The  rose  was  creative  in  its  loveliness — 
yet  the  very  attar  of  sensuousness.  The  fragrance  close  to 
the  petals  was  not  potent,  but  the  oil  of  the  earth  itself, 
sublimate  of  all  flavors.  The  beauty  awed  me,  yet 
thrillingly  of  the  earth,  like  a  nude  princess  asleep  in 
a  bower. 

As  I  lifted  my  head,  Yuan  was  bending  close  in  the 
twilight,  his  slanting  eyes  queerly  intent  upon  my  face. 


46  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  I  thought  you  would  feel  it,"  he  said.  "  It  made 
you  blush.  To  a  woman  its  beauty  is  masculine.  If 
I  were  sending  roses  across  the  river — they  would  be 
red  roses." 

It  was  so  that  Yuan  occasionally  startled  me. 

There  was  silence  in  which  the  night  came,  and  then 
Yuan  said :  "  It's  like  a  great  human  soul — that 
Emperor  rose.  It  has  its  prodigious  deviltry,  too.  It  has 
expressed  the  mystery  of  the  soil,  as  a  great  human 
spirit  expresses  the  mystic  harmony  of  the  planetary 
forces.  Decades  and  thousands  of  failures  were  required 
to  evolve  that  rose.  Milleniums  and  whole  races  of 
failures  are  required  to  evolve  a  great  human  soul.  But 
one  bloom  makes  glorious  a  thousand  failures;  as  one 
great  human  spirit  redeems  a  whole  race.  And  look, 
too :  the  essence  of  some  other  perfect  yellow  rose  touch 
ing  the  anthers  of  this,  will  make  another  more  glorious 
Emperor.  What  a  crucial  instant  in  its  evolution " 

"  And  what  a  crucial  hour  in  the  evolution  of  a 
great  human  spirit,"  I  added,  "  when  the  destined  lover 
appears." 

This  was  as  near  as  we  came  to  discussing  the 
episode  of  the  day.  It  was  like  Yuan  not  to  speak  of 
that  illuminating  time.  .  .  .  The  hour  after  sunset  was 
the  interval  of  bathing  and  relaxation  in  his  house. 
Close  to  the  ground  were  these  ancient  arrangements, 
beginning  with  a  cave  of  steam,  and  ending  with  a  cool 
fountain,  perfumed  from  the  gardens.  Afterward, 
dinner  time,  and  we  sat  side-by-side  on  padded  mattings, 
the  dishes  placed  before  us  on  the  tiles.  An  inter 
minable  dining  in  its  richness  and  variety — one  com 
posite  after  another  of  fish  or  flesh  or  fruit — until 


Yellow  River  47 

we  were  weary  of  the  place  and  the  sitting.  It  was 
very  clear  to  me  that  the  servants  would  continue  this 
performance  until  we  came  again — a  sort  of  endless 
producing  of  culinary  preludes,  etudes  and  fantasies.  As 
it  was,  they  followed  us  to  the  end  of  the  lanterns  with 
coffee  and  sweets.  To  Yuan  all  this  was  a  matter  of 
course.  I  reflected  that  one  must  become  used  to  these 
superlative  comforts  of  a  Chinese  house,  in  order  to 
lift  his  thoughts  from  his  bodily  well-being. 

There  were  long  minutes  that  evening  when  I  did 
not  hear  what  Yuan  was  saying;  and  yet  he  was  at  his 
best.  The  Oriental  tale-teller  was  in  him,  a  low  unfold 
ing,  easy  as  breathing,  and  belonging  to  the  classic 
years  when  shepherds  gathered  about  night-fires  on  herd- 
strewn  hills  and  talked  of  Gods  and  fates  and  dragons. 
It  had  come  upon  me  since  the  dusk,  a  passion  that 
proved  irresistible,  to  walk  the  thirty  miles  upstream 
to  the  mining  operations  of  Nicholas  Romany;  to  see 
the  place  where  the  woman  lived  and  moved.  I  would 
not  make  myself  known,  but  possibly,  from  afar  off 

Hope  farther  than  this  was  not  to  be  tolerated.  It 
would  be  a  pilgrimage  to  the  place  where  she  lived.  .  .  . 
Very  little  had  come  to  me  about  the  Romanys  in  China. 
Romany  was  operating  for  gold  in  the  bed  of  the  Hsi 
kiang,  a  canyon-tributary  of  the  Yang  tse,  emptying  into 
the  greater  gorge  at  Hsi  tin  lin.  A  hundred  or  more 
natives  were  employed.  Romany  had  re-galvanized  the 
old  district,  Yuan  declared.  His  recent  journey  to  Hong 
Kong  was  to  arrange  for  a  big  outlay  in  modern  mining 
machinery  which  would  require  many  months  to  deliver 
and  install.  Yuan  also  informed  me  that  Nicholas 
Romany  was  a  mighty  plunger  in  Far  Eastern  affairs; 


48  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

a  man  who  might  loot  a  nation  on  occasion,  but  who  was 
square  with  his  men. 

I  refrained  from  telling  Yuan  of  my  impetuous  desire. 
Positively  he  would  be  against  a  white  man  taking  such 
a  venture  at  this  distance  interior — and  I  wanted  to  go 
alone.  Yuan  would  have  made  clear  the  necessity  of  a 
boat  or  a  palanquin.  .  .  . 

Mary  Romany  had  not  asked  me  to  come.  I  was 
peculiarly  aware  of  what  she  had  said — "  when  we  have 
both  done  our  work."  She  did  not  believe  in  my  semi- 
studious  and  non-productive  world-wandering.  She  had 
not  seen  conquest  in  my  face,  to  make  indubitable  my 
conquest  of  her.  Many  deep  intimations  made  this  clear 
to  me.  ...  I  should  see  her  place — then  go  my  way  to 
find  my  work. 

Yuan  and  I  separated  for  the  night.  His  chamber 
adjoined  the  one  accorded  to  me.  He  would  not  be 
greatly  surprised  to  find  me  gone  in  the  morning ;  would 
think  I  had  crossed  the  river.  In  his  house  there  was 
that  consummate  hospitality  which  never  intrudes  upon 
the  delicacy  of  going,  and  yet  makes  each  repeated  com 
ing  more  memorable. 

I  slept  not  at  all,  but  lay  under  the  swaying  punkahs, 
held  in  that  deeply  wearing  tension  of  a  lover  awaiting 
the  moment  to  arise  and  go  to  his  lady — a  lover  not  sure 
of  her  smile. 

In  the  first  gray  of  dawn  I  was  softly  astir.  On 
tip-toe  I  peered  over  the  screen  into  Yuan's  room.  He 
was  not  in  the  bed.  In  the  faint  infusion  of  dawn,  beyond 
the  ghostly  swinging  of  the  white  punkahs,  I  saw  him  in 
native  garments  sitting  by  the  window.  So  Yuan,  too, 
had  not  slept.  .  .  . 

I  moved  far  around  the  rose  gardens  so  as  not  to 


Yellow  River  49 

pass  his  window  on  the  way  to  the  gate.  Perhaps  he 
would  not  have  called,  had  he  seen  me.  ...  It  was  no 
part  of  my  plan  to  cross  the  river  to  Liu  chuan.  The 
mining  operations,  I  had  ascertained,  were  on  this  bank, 
and  this  side  of  the  Hsi  tributary.  ...  I  had  money,  good 
shoes,  comfortable  clothing — but  was  not  armed.  I 
reached  the  high  rocky  road  along  the  river,  and  my 
quest  loomed  more  perilous  in  the  gray  hour. 

8 

ALWAYS  I  felt  someone  behind  me,  toward  the  end 
of  that  journey.  The  country  was  wilder,  the  distance 
faintly  contoured  with  peaks  not  visible  from  Liu  chuan. 
The  big  river  narrowed,  and  though  not  in  flood,  a  sullen 
monotone  was  borne  up  from  its  rushing.  At  times 
there  was  a  queer  stress  to  the  strangeness,  the  with 
drawal  of  a  certain  property  from  one's  natural  element, 
which  brought  back  to  mind  lonely  days  of  Tibetan 
travel.  It  was  not  fear,  but  the  pressure  of  alien  nature. 

At  noon  I  rested  for  three  hours  by  a  roadway  hut. 
A  hideously  dirty  native  wrapped  a  fish  in  leaves,  roasted 
it  in  the  ground  with  heated  stones,  and  served  it  with 
rice  and  tea.  The  offering  would  have  been  delicious, 
and  I  was  hungry  as  well,  had  I  not  seen  the  hands 
and  the  performance.  There  were  children  about,  whose 
bodies  and  clothing  had  not  touched  the  river,  nor  any 
drawing  from  it. 

China  is  alien  always.  One  may  become  scornfully 
familiar  with  Japan,  and  enjoy  a  temperamental  intimacy 
with  India,  but  China  is  ever  aloof.  On  certain  Sunday 
afternoons  in  America  I  have  seen  the  quality  of  sun 
light  that  is  China's.  Perhaps  the  effect  is  one  of 
4 


50  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

atmosphere  (in  the  artistic  rather  than  the  literal  sense) 
a  matter  of  temperament  rather  than  of  eye.  As  the 
light  is  different,  so  the  surface  of  the  land  to  me,  the 
profile  of  hill-ranges,  sounds,  scents  and  clouds.  Is  it  a 
film  that  Qina  has  for  my  eyes,  or  a  drug  all  her  own 
for  the  brain?  In  any  event,  I  see  her  through  tinted 
shadow  and  move  in  her  dream. 

,  Mid-afternoon,  I  climbed  the  hills  above  Hsi  tin  lin, 
and  sat  down,  very  weary,  in  what  seemed  an  isolated 
covert,  to  study  the  settlement.  An  animation,  suppressed 
and  unseen,  reached  my  ears  from  behind.  .  .  .  Thirty 
rocky  elongated  miles  I  had  traveled.  Ahead  the  roiled 
tributary,  Hsi  kiang,  joined  the  Yang  tse,  and  in  the 
crotch  were  smoking  go-downs  and  silent  labor.  Farther 
up,  among  the  rocks,  the  town  was  sprawled,  spiritless 
and  near  to  death. 

Not  alone  the  journey  had  worn  me,  but  the  in 
tensity  of  thinking  and  fearing.  Why  was  Mary  Romany 
here?  If  I  should  see  her  face  to  face,  would  she  be 
angry?  Had  I  not  builded  too  mightily  upon  that  kiss? 
Might  it  not  have  been  just  a  touch  of  old  flame,  an 
impetuous  friendliness?  Who  was  Santell?  .  .  .  Over 
and  over  in  highways  of  their  own  making,  these 
thoughts  raced  across  my  mind — these,  and  all  their 
kindred  and  issue — as  my  eyes  roved  over  the  scene 
below,  from  rock  to  smoke-pipe,  from  hut  to  hill.  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  weary  depths  of  it,  Mary  Romany  called  me. 

My  whole  heart  lifted  to  bless  the  moment.  She  had 
crossed  the  hill  behind  me  from  the  main  river-way;  her 
face  frightened,  though  smiling.  She  put  forth  her 
hand. 

"  I've  watched  for  many  seconds.  I  couldn't  believe," 
she  faltered.  "Didn't  you  hear  me  come  nearer?" 


Yellow  River  51 

"  I  was  thinking — must  have  fallen  pretty  deep — 
but  I'm  not  here  to  make  you  in  the  least  uncomfortable. 
I  hoped  to  see  you — but  hardly  counted  on  seeing  you 
face  to  face " 

She  was  paler.  "  A  thousand  miles  up  the  Yang  tse 
from  Shanghai  just  for  that?" 

It  was  startlingly  like  the  moment  on  the  Hong 
Kong  terrace.  I  had  learned  my  lesson. 

"  Yes, — but  I  have  not  yet  done  my  work.  I  mean 
the  work  to  be  done — before  we  were  to  meet  again." 

Her  eyes  turned  to  the  lit  umber  of  the  west,  and  I 
saw  the  sparkle  of  a  forming  tear. 

"  It  was  all  so  strange.  Hong  Kong  left  me  restless. 
I  heard  you  were  here.  I  had  to  oome.  ...  I  shall  go 
back  now — only  tell  me  that  all  is  right  with  you " 

If  I  could  have  known  the  things  that  were  in  her 
heart  to  say  that  moment.  In  the  bursting  stress  of 
them,  her  brain  turned  to  present  needs. 

"  But  you  must  rest  from  your  journey."  (The  voice 
brought  me  back  to  a  little  room  before  my  father  took 
me  by  the  hand  to  travel  the  world.)  ..."  You  have 
come  a  long  way  to-day  ?  " 

"  From  Liu  chuan — but  I  am  grateful  to  have  seen 
you.  I  can  go  back  gladly.  It  was  against  your  word 
to  come " 

"  My  poor  hurried  words  at  Hong  Kong.  But  it 
is  true.  You  do  not  belong  here — and  it  is  not  time. 
I  am  well.  All  is  well  enough  with  me  for  the  present. 
.  .  .  But  your  party — the  men  must  go  down  into  the 
town  to  rest  and  obtain  food,  before  you  start  back ' 

"  I  have  no  party.    I  came  alone  from  Liu  chuan." 

Her  eyes  turned  quickly  in  the  direction   she  had 


52  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

come.  "  I  saw  a  palanquin  and  natives  back  yonder — 
behind  the  long  hill." 

"  I  wonder  what  it  means  ?  I  had  the  sense  of  being 
followed.  .  .  .  There's  someone  coming  now — someone 
who  doesn't  intend  to  take  us  unaware.  Perhaps  you'd 
better  hurry  down " 

"  You  come,  too.  The  natives  are  not  easily  awed 
up  here.  They  might — you  must  not  think  of  going  back 
alone  to-night." 

"  I'd  better  see.  There's  nothing  to  fear  so  close  to 
the  town " 

One  of  Yuan's  house  servants  hurried  up  and  handed 
me  this  letter: 

My  good  friend :  I  hope  you  may  never  learn  the  peril  of 
traveling  alone  deep  in  our  interior.  A  small  protective  party 
was  sent  after  you  at  once  on  general  principles.  I  left  hours 
later,  an  hour  before  noon,  in  fact.  The  one  dread  thing  has 
happened.  The  Fist  has  already  struck.  I  bring  word  of  the 
uprising  against  foreigners.  Our  Liu  chuan  and  these  upper 
towns  will  shortly  get  the  contagion,  possibly  to-night.  Your 
lady  must  be  brought  down  to  Liu  chuan  to-night.  Her  father 
and  any  others  must  be  warned.  I  shall  wait  here  behind  the 
hill  for  you — but  do  not  keep  me  long.  My  haste,  of  course,  is 
for  those  at  Liu  chuan.  YUAN. 

The  woman  had  read,  and  I  told  her  quickly  about 
my  friend. 

"  There  is  quality  in  this  coming  of  his,"  I  said.  "  A 
woman  in  Liu  chuan  is  very  dear  to  him." 

"  My  father  is  down  the  river — he  started  for  Liu 
chuan  this  morning.  His  foreman  is  with  him.  There's 
only  Mr.  Santell  here " 

"  You  must  come  with  me." 

Mary  Romany  looked  into  my  eyes.  "  How  strange 
it  is,"  she  repeated. 


Yellow  River  53 

"  But  surely  there  is  only  to  obey.  Yuan — I  utterly 
trust " 

"  Let  me  think.  .  .  .  Mr.  Santell  must  be  told.  I 
must  change  my  dress." 

I  smiled. 

"  I  really  don't  feel  properly  terrified.  .  .  .  I'll  go 
down  to  the  house. ,  You'll  see  from  here  the  one  I  enter. 
You  might  come  for  me — in  twenty  minutes." 

I  was  watching  her  descent,  when  Yuan  joined  me, 
his  face  haggard. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  I.  "  It  was  such  a  personal 
little  pilgrimage,  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you  with  it." 

"  Do  remember,  my  friend,  that  it's  no  trouble  to  do 
things  for  those  we  like.  It  was  perhaps  a  little  reck 
less  for  you  to  take  the  risk — even  without  the  Uprising. 
But  I  seem  to  understand  you  better  than  formerly. 
Will  she  come?" 

"  Yes." 

"  The  Fist  might  strike  in  Liu  chuan — early.  You 
see,  I  want  to  be  back  there  by  midnight.  The  lady 
shall  have  the  palanquin.  A  good  boat  is  following  us 
full  speed  up-stream — so  you'll  not  have  to  walk  far. 
We  shall  make  good  time  back  on  the  river " 

My  eyes  were  following  the  diminishing  figure  of 
Mary  Romany.  She  entered  one  of  the  brown  low  huts, 
and  turned  in  the  door-way  to  wave  her  hand. 

"  Friends  or  not,"  said  I,  "  it  won't  be  easy  to  forget 
your  thinking  of  my  interests  first — after  I  slipped  away 
so  unceremoniously." 

Yuan  started,  as  if  his  thoughts  were  far  from  mine. 
His  hand  fell  across  my  arm. 

"  We  may  have  much  to  do  together.  Down  the 
river — that's  the  first.  .  .  .  Don't  think  too  hard  of  these 


54  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

poor  people  of  mine.  China  is  an  old  brood-mother 
that  has  littered  large  and  often.  It  has  made  her 
cross " 

"  To  strange  whelps,"  said  I. 

"  She  often  rolls  on  her  own  in  her  sleep.  .  .  .  Go 
now  to  your  lady.  All  I  ask  is  to  reach  Liu  chuan  in 
time.  .  .  .  There  is  much  to  make  us  strong  together — 
back  to  back — you  and  I." 

Presently  I  followed  down  into  Hsi  tin  lin.  The 
fast  yellow  light  of  day  was  more  than  ever  sinister  and 
alien,  on  the  slopes  and  roofs — after  Yuan's  words. 
China  felt  close  about  me,  yellow  and  like  a  sickness. 


MY  steps  were  noiseless  in  the  sand.  The  hut  was 
larger  than  I  thought.  Santell  had  entered  many  minutes 
before,  and  I  had  not  seen  him  go.  It  was  past  f  the 
time  Mary  Romany  had  said  for  me  to  come.  I  would 
have  waited  longer,  except  for  Yuan's  straining  to  start 
down  the  river.  There  was  no  sound  as  I  neared  the 
door.  Suddenly  now  the  queer-pitched  voice  was  up 
raised — like  a  cicada  in  some  oppressive  forest  stillness : 

"  He's  stealing  you — that's  all.  .  .  .  Waits  for  your 
father  to  go  away — brings  his  party  of  Chinos.  You 
catch  him  in  a  lie  about  his  party,  and  he  lies  out  of  it. 
Now  you're  going.  The  old  man  will  look  me  over — 

turn  sick  at  the  sight  of  me "  and  Santell  flung 

himself  forth. 

The  words  were  like  nails.  They  are  intact  in  recol 
lection — all  the  polished  heads  of  them.  Santell  felt  what 
he  said,  and  could  not  change.  His  mind  had  not  many 
approaches.  His  face,  as  he  rushed  out,  was  startlingly 


Yellow  River  55 

flawless  as  ever,  but  just  now  the  expression  was  so 
flighty  that  one  could  not  seize  upon  a  thought  to  stay 
the  momentum  behind.  A  handsome  distempered  child, 
this  being  tall  as  I.  Yet  though  his  rage  held  my  atten 
tion,  it  was  empty.  The  face  softened  apologetically,  as 
he  saw  me;  then  as  swiftly  re-flushed  with  anger.  He 
stamped  away  in  the  sand. 

"  Wait,  Mr.  Santell,"  I  called. 

He  turned. 

"  It  did  happen  strangely,"  I  said,  speaking  carefully 
as  to  a  child,  yet  with  no  will  to  do  so.  "  The  news  is  as 
fresh  to  me  almost  as  to  you.  They  are  killing  mis 
sionaries  down  the  river.  A  good  friend  sent  a  sort  of 
rescue  party  after  me.  I  had  merely  come  with  the  hope 
of — seeing  Miss  Romany " 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Won't  you  return  with  us  ?  " 

"  No.  .  .  .  Her  father  left  her  here  with  me,"  he  said 
with  a  toss  of  his  head.  "  I'll  stay  here  on  the  plant " 

"  You'd  better  come,"  the  woman  said. 

Santell  was  gone,  and  she  turned  to  me. 

We  walked  swiftly,  silently  up  the  rising  way.  .  .  . 
Forcibly,  I  realized  now  how  little  I  knew  Mary  Romany 
— save  for  the  inner  unutterable  attraction. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  you  had  to  hear  that,"  she  said,  as 
we  climbed  the  hill. 

"  It  was  certainly  a  new  view  of  the  matter." 

"  He's  a  boy  in  so  many  ways*.  Yet  I  should — oh, 
it's  dreadful  for  him  to  be  alone  here,  if  the  Chinese " 

"  But  don't  you  see — if  he's  afraid  for  your  life — 
and  you  insist  on  going,  his  business  is  to  follow  you." 

"  Yes,  but  he  doesn't  see  things  as  we — as  others 
do.  The  mining  operations  are  reality  to  him,  and  he's 


56  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

very  loyal  to  my  father.  He's  ruffled  because  things 
do  not  fashion  to  his  plan,  while  he's  in  charge." 

"  There's  only  to  leave  him,"  Yuan  said  bitterly, 
when  we  joined  him.  "  Yet  wait — I  might  order  one 
of  my  house-servants  to  stay  as  a  guide  and  possible 
helper,  and  leave  a  note  asking  him  again  to  join  us  at 
his  convenience " 

He  drew  the  curtains  of  the  palanquin  as  he  spoke. 
Mary  Romany  thanked  him.  The  Chinese  added  to 
Santell's  slender  chances  plainly  relieved  her  mind.  She 
had  asked  if  she  might  not  walk  with  us,  but  this  was 
beyond  the  imagination  of  Yuan.  For  myself  I  didn't 
know  how  tired  I  was  until  the  screen  of  the  palanquin 
fell  and  we  were  on  the  way.  .  .  .  An  hour  passed,  and 
another — a  rapid,  voiceless  urging  forward,  Yuan  and 
I  side  by  side,  when  the  trail  allowed.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
call  from  the  Chinese  far  ahead  in  the  night.  When 
we  came  up,  the  native  reported  our  boat,  waiting  in  the 
river  below. 

"  That  is  good,"  Yuan  said  gratefully.  "  There  is  a 
trifle  over  twenty  miles  to  do — fast  punting  down  stream 
and  not  yet  nine  o'clock.  We  shall  be  there  by  mid 
night." 

.  .  .  The  moon  lifted  for  a  while,  and  we  could  see 
(from  beneath  the  matting  forward)  the  glistening 
bodies  of  the  two  punters,  naked  above  the  waist  But 
the  clouds  gathered  again,  and  the  face  of  the  water  and 
the  canyon-walls  became  one  in  blackness.  Yuan  made 
us  understand  that  his  position  was  a  peculiar  one ;  that 
his  family,  while  not  belonging  to  the  societies  so  hostile 
to  the  foreigners,  could  not  without  loss  of  caste  and 
fortune  openly  assist  the  whites.  It  was  not  necessary 
for  him  to  point  out  the  treatment  accorded  to  poor 


Yellow  River  57 

Chinese  home-makers  when  abroad ;  nor  to  remind  us  of 
what  China  had  endured  from  English  and  Americans 
here.  Yuan  carefully  enlarged  our  conception  of  the 
Chinese  disregard  of  human  life.  No  one  could  have 
made  these  matters  stand  out  with  less  words,  nor  fairer. 
I  perceived  that  our  friend's  future  would  be  seriously 
menaced  if  he  were  found  militant  in  our  behalf.  .  .  . 
Once  I  leaned  forward  to  Mary  Romany,  and  she  took 
my  hand. 

"  It's  very  wonderful  to  be  here  with  you,"  I  said, 
and  I'm  sure  no  one  ever  repeated  that  ancient  sentence 
with  more  thrilling  truth.  .  .  . 

A  waver  of  red  in  the  sky  above  Liu  chuan — a  gleam 
of  red  silk  under  crepe.  Word  from  Yuan,  and  the 
boys  at  the  long  curving  sculls  strained  harder.  Two 
others  joined  them  from  the  group  aft,  whose  muttering 
had  become  louder,  since  the  turn  of  the  river  and  the 
red  in  the  sky.  The  breathing  of  the  four  was  curiously 
like  the  low  hissing  of  a  steam-exhaust.  .  .  .  The  touch 
of  her  hands  made  me  think  of  the  music  in  Hong 
Kong. 

"  I  never  can  remember  the  theme,  only  the  spirit 
of  that  Chopin  Larghetto"  I  said. 

"  How  strange,"  she  whispered.  "  I  was  thinking 
of  Hong  Kong  and  that  night  just  now.  Our  F  Minor 
night.  .  .  .  How  restless  the  Chinese  are " 

"  It's  the  schoolhouse  near  the  Mission,"  Yuan  said 
quietly.  "  The  Chinese  have  fired  it."  .  .  .  Then  he 
added  for  us  only  to  hear :  "  They've  begun  early.  I'll 
put  you  off  at  our  private  landing.  There'll  be  a  keeper 
at  the  Gate.  I'll  cross  over  to  Liu  chuan — and  see  what 
can  be  done." 


58  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

We  slid  past  one  of  the  cuts  leading  up  to  the  Liu 
chuan  cliffs.  The  fire  stood  out  clearly.  A  junk  floated 
by  nearer  shore,  as  we  approached  Yuan's  landing.  The 
natives  in  the  two  boats  exchanged  talk  in  a  low  voluble 
fashion.  Yuan's  face,  caught  in  the  lantern-ray,  was 
like  a  weathered  marble.  .  .  .  Mary  Romany  and  I  could 
whisper  no  more.  We  were  thinking  of  the  others.  It 
was  difficult  to  realize  that  our  lives  were  exposed  to 
any  danger.  .  .  .  The  other  boat  had  turned  and  seemed 
to  follow  us  slowly.  Yuan  spoke  with  sudden  anger 
at  one  of  the  Chinese — for  something  that  had  been 
called  back  to  the  strangers. 

"  These  are  not  all  my  personal  servants,"  he  said 
in  English.  "  The  river  men  are  always  awake  to  dis 
order." 

...  I  knew  enough  to  understand  that  the  word  of 
our  presence  had  gone  to  the  other  boat.  In  spite 
of  this,  I  did  a  thoughtless  thing  in  my  eagerness  for 
Yuan  to  become  active  in  behalf  of  those  in  Liu  chuan. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,"  I  said,  when  he  suggested  accom 
panying  us  to  the  Gate.  "  Just  leave  us  here — and  hurry 
over." 

My  words  might  have  made  no  difference.  It  is  true, 
however,  that  even  Yuan  had  not  yet  an  accurate  con 
ception  of  the  forces  of  the  night;  and  his  heart  and 
soul  were  magnetized  by  the  woman  across  the  river.  I 
had  a  fleeting  sense  of  disaster  as  the  boat  swung  out 
into  the  current  once  more,  leaving  us  at  the  foot  of  the 
defile,  that  led  upward  to  the  wilted  white  pagoda  mark 
ing  the  gate  to  the  Kang  Su  estate. 

We  waited  a  moment  in  the  silence.  ...  A  sentence 
which  some  one  had  taught  me  as  a  child  came  back 
to  mind.  "...  They  shall  run  and  not  be  weary;  they 


Yellow  River  59 

shall  walk  and  not  faint."  .  .  .  Now,  I  became  very  sure 
that  the  boat  of  the  talkative  strangers  was  slipping 
quietly  toward  us  along  to  shore.  Yuan's  boat  was  out 
in  mid-stream.  Mary  Romany  stood  very  close  to  me. 
.  .  .  There  was  more  to  that  old  scripture — something 
about  "  their "  strength  being  renewed.  .  .  .  The  sky 
was  redder  across  the  river.  The  moon  was  shrouded, 
and  the  smell  of  rain  freshened  the  air,  the  first  drops 
splashing  immediately. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  I  whispered. 

The  way  was  narrow  and  winding,  a  wild  and  charm 
ing  ascent  in  daylight.  .  .  .  Santell,  alone  up  in  Hsi  tin 
lin,  crossed  my  mind — perhaps  because  the  woman  was 
thinking  of  him.  This  took  the  tang  from  the  ad 
venture.  .  .  .  The  other  boat  touched  the  landing  below — 
low  voices,  the  glint  of  a  moving  light  at  the  river-edge. 
Perversely  I  began  to  question  myself,  if  I  were  not 
taking  these  unknown  Chinese  too  seriously.  A  man 
is  invariably  as  much  afraid  of  his  fear,  as  of  his  danger. 
.  .  .  The  strange  party  was  following  us  up.  I  de 
termined  not  to  hurry  to  the  Gate,  lest  it  not  be  opened 
quickly,  and  the  others  overtake  us.  Rain,  darkness, 
stillness,  the  woman,  alien  voices, — and  the  red  was 
wavering  out  of  the  sky  across  the  river. 

"  We  must  step  aside,  and  let  them  pass.  I  don't 
think  they  belong  to  Yuan's  household,"  I  whispered. 
Unquestioning  she  obeyed,  holding  fast  to  my  arm,  as 
we  pressed  through  the  thicknesses  of  foliage.  Off  the 
path  the  earth  was  slippery  soft,  where  not  woven  with 
roots.  There  was  no  need  to  tell  her  to  step  lightly. 
She  chose  her  way  through  the  densities  as  softly  as  the 
ticking  of  the  rain  on  the  leaves.  Farther  and  farther 
we  penetrated.  .  .  .  The  low  volubility  of  the  strange 


60  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Chinese  now  abreast  of  us  on  the  path,  fell  like  sleet 
upon  naked  nerves.  They  were  looking  for  us,  sus 
picious  of  our  landing,  unknown  deviltry  in  their  hearts. 
I  saw  the  faces  in  the  light  they  carried,  light  that  leaked 
from  a  broken  tin  lantern.  My  left  hand  moved  over 
to  the  woman's,  which  held  so  firmly  to  my  right  arm. 

Upward  they  moved — four  river-natives.  .  .  .  We 
heard  them  finally  at  the  Gate,  the  beast-like  monotony 
of  intonation.  ...  At  this  instant,  a  different  sound 
seemed  to  come  over  the  river. 

"  Do  you  hear  anything?  " 

"  Yes,  a  far-off  shouting,"  she  answered. 

And  Yuan's  figure  of  the  old-mother  dog  rolling 
upon  one  of  the  litter  curiously  returned. 

"  We  must  go  in  deeper — they  are  coming  back."  I 
told  her. 

.  .  .  We  heard  them  descending  the  path — voices 
that  could  not  be  brought  down  to  a  whisper,  unfinished 
in  tone  and  volume,  voices  of  the  preying  night. 
Occasionally  we  caught  the  glow  of  the  lantern  beyond 
the  wall  of  foliage.  I  feared  they  might  find  her  sharp 
heel-mark,  as  it  left  the  flinty  path  for  the  spongy 
thicket.  Possibly  they  were  not  certain  that  we  had 
left  the  boat ;  or  they  may  have  thought  we  had  entered 
Yuan's  gardens.  In  any  event,  they  passed  on  down 
to  the  landing.  .  .  .  The  woman  was  standing  upon  a 
hassock  of  roots,  her  left  arm  very  close.  My  lips 
touched  the  seam  at  her  shoulder — the  fruition  of  that 
old  impulse  in  the  music-room  in  Hong  Kong.  She 
could  not  know. 


Yellow  River  61 

10 

AND  now  we  returned  to  the  path  and  ascended 
cautiously  to  the  Gate.  It  was  closed,  of  course,  but 
apparently  without  the  keeper.  We  knocked  and  called 
softly,  to  no  avail.  The  Chinese  party  had  spoiled  our 
chance  of  entrance.  It  would  not  do  to  make  an  outcry. 
With  each  moment  it  became  less  advisable  in  my  mind 
to  implicate  Yuan  and  his  people  in  our  plight,  to  the 
extent  of  rousing  his  household. '  Moreover,  natives 
might  be  loitering  outside  the  wall.  We  dared  not  re 
main  near  the  Gate,  lest  the  Chinese  return;  and  yet  if 
Yuan  came  and  failed  to  find  us  within,  we  must  make 
our  presence  known.  So  the  thoughts  formed  in  a 
rush.  I  led  the  way  for  a  short  distance  around  the 
wall. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  things  are  breaking  like  this.  Yuan 
couldn't  have  foreseen  it " 

"  Please  don't  say  it  that  way,"  she  whispered.  "  We 
are  companions.  We  shall  do  the  best  that  we  know 
and  can.  Please  don't  think  of  me — as  one  whose  feel 
ings  must  be  spared " 

My  foot  butted  a  low  mound  close  to  the  wall.  On 
the  rise,  I  could  touch  the  wall's  coping  and  could  feel 
the  jagged  pieces  of  broken  glass  set  in  the  ancient 
plaster  on  top.  I  slipped  off  my  coat,  a  tough  garment 
of  Bedford  cord,  and  saddled  the  wall  with  it  in  double 
thickness;  then,  back  against  the  masonry,  I  wove  my 
fingers  for  her  step.  Her  hand  brushed  down  my  arm. 
She  caught  the  intent. 

"Must  I?" 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  safer  over  there — until  Yuan 
comes." 


62  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  My  shoes  are  so  muddy " 

"  Please.  What  a  trifle.  This  can  be  managed,  and 
there  is  plenty  of  time.  Be  careful  to  touch  the  wall 
only  where  the  coat  is." 

And  so  I  held  in  my  hands  the  slender  foot  in  its 
light  wet  boot,  her  hands  upon  my  head — and  up  she 
went,  to  my  shoulder,  then  to  the  coping  with  the  coat 
beneath  her.  ...  I  heard  her  laughing  softly  in  the  dark 
ness.  The  whisper  reached  me: 

"  It  wouldn't  have  been  hard — only  for  the  dress. 
But — but  now,  how  can  you  make  it  ?  " 

She  was  edging  over  to  spare  as  much  of  -the  coat 
for  me  as  possible. 

"  I  need  only  a  grip  for  my  hands." 

Mary  Romany  looking  down — there  was  lift  just  in 
that.  Upon  most  of  the  actions  a  man  performs  worthily, 
a  woman  is  looking  down.  It  had  been  a  rather  primitive 
twenty-four  hours  for  me.  I  was  cut,  strained  about 
the  chest — but  over  I  went,  my  head  rolling  across  her 
lap,  as  I  dropped.  Then  Mary  Romany  let  herself  down 
upon  the  coat,  I  guiding  her  foot  to  my  shoulder,  then 
full  she  came,  into  my  arms  and  to  the  garden-earth. 
She  pressed  my  hand  in  a  quick  congratulatory  way. 
We  had  conquered  the  Wall  without  being  discovered 
by  the  least  of  the  Kang  Su  servants. 

That  instant  (possibly  it  was  a  sharp  gust  of  rose- 
fragrance  that  lifted  me),  I  told  Mary  Romany  I  loved 
her.  I  recall  the  diminutive  sentence  as  quite  of 
miraculous  origin — no  rococo  whatsoever  about  its 
arriving. 

It  was  I  who  broke  the  silence.  "  I  am  more  awed 
than  you  can  possibly  be,  Mary  Romany,"  said  I.  "  It 
must  have  been  the  roses " 


Yellow  River  63 

She  laughed.  "  I  can't  get  Hsi  tin  lin  out  of  mind 
— nor  the  red  in  the  sky " 

She  breathed  deeply  and  long,  as  if  to  make  part 
of  her,  the  beauty  of  the  roses  in  the  rain. 

"  There's  a  little  temple  around  here  somewhere — 
dug  from  the  side  of  a  hill,"  I  whispered.  "  Yuan 
showed  me  one  day — yesterday.  .  .  .  But  you  knew.  You 
must  have  known.  It  has  been  so,  since  Oporto " 

"  Is  the  door  open  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Perhaps  if  we 
grope  around,  we  can  find  it " 

"  A  little  place  of  worship  carved  out  of  a  verdured 
hill.  .  .  .  Yes,  here  it  is " 

We  pushed  open  the  creaking  wooden  door  and  sat 
down  out  of  the  shower.  After  a  long  time  Mary 
Romany  drew  my  head  to  her  shoulder. 

"  We've  been  good  companions.  Did  you  know  a 
woman  loves  that — danger  and  all?  ...  How  terribly 
tired  you  are." 

I  rested — and  fell  into  the  queerest  mood  of  looking 
backward.  A  clear  smooth-running  panorama  unfolded, 
containing  a  salient  souvenir  from  every  life-crossing, 
some  figment  from  every  high  moment,  a  bit  of 
atmosphere  from  every  stirring  picture.  It  was  a  passion 
lifted  above  the  senses  that  night.  The  beat  of  her  heart 
was  like  a  spirit  whispering  all  that  I  should  sometime 
know.  .  .  .  There  was  no  effort  at  thinking,  no  self- 
consciousness — just  a  true  relation  of  things  visioned  in 
a  rare  brief  time  of  perfect  rapport.  My  lips  formed 
the  words : 

"  I  seem  to  have  come  home " 

There  would  have  been  no  significance  at  all  in 
the   utterance — nothing   out   of   the   commonplace — had 


64  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

not  Mary  Romany  shared  the  strange  serene  trans 
parency  of  mind. 

"  How  dear  for  a  man  to  say,  and  for  a  woman  to 
hear,"  she  whispered.  ...  It  did  not  come  again,  that 
open  door  into  the  past,  but  the  clear  harmony  of  it 
lived  in  our  minds  for  many  moments.  At  last  I  heard 
from  without  the  Wall,  the  low  voices  of  natives.  They 
passed  by  from  the  Gate  around  the  Wall;  and  then 
we  heard  them  coming  back — a  sickening  discord  of 
intonations  until  the  words  reached  me: 

"...  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon " 

We  had  made  no  arrangement,  but  the  signal  from 
Yuan  in  the  party  was  instant  clear.  I  called  to  him 
from  the  low  door  of  the  temple.  A  moment  afterward 
he  appeared  in  the  gardens  alone. 

"  I  found  you  had  not  come  through  the  Gate — and 
thought  you  must  be  hiding  somewhere  outside.  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  answer  until  you  were  sure  of  me.  A 
bad  botch  of  things — such  a  shabby  way  to  treat  you. 
Please  forgive  your  friend.  I  don't  see  yet — why  you 
were  not  admitted." 

I  explained  about  the  party  from  the  river.  He 
gripped  my  hand  thankfully.  "  It  is  good  and  merciful 
for  me — that  you  two  proved  so  wise  as  to  avoid  those 
river-men.  I  must  have  been  called  very  strongly  over 
the  river.  .  .  .  Yes,  they  have  had  a  hard  time.  I  can't 
do  exactly  as  I  would.  The  provinces  are  aroused 
against  the  foreigners,  and  I  am  Chinese.  Mine  is  a 
secret  part — even  against  my  own  servants.  .  .  .  Come 
with  me  now,  I  am  going  to  dress  you  over,  and  get 
you  both  started  down  the  river  before  daylight.  It's 
just  two  now " 

It  was  hard  to  believe  that  it  was  not  later.     Yet 


Yellow  River  65 

the  dark  immensity  of  that  night  (which  had  held  a 
rapture,  too)  had  other  unfoldings.  .  .  .  We  crossed  the 
gardens  to  the  broad  low  house — I  to  the  room  of  the 
night  before,  in  which  I  had  plotted  the  solitary  journey 
up  the  river-road,  and  Mary  Romany  to  the  room  next, 
which  Yuan  had  occupied.  I  crowded  questions  upon 
him  as  to  what  had  taken  place  across  the  river. 

"  One  of  the  Germans  was  murdered  on  the  Bluffs 
last  evening — almost  in  front  of  the  Rest  House.  One 
boat  was  all  the  Germans  had.  They  offered  to  take 
two  of  the  women  from  the  Mission.  There  was  some 
trouble  as  to  who  should  go — but  it  was  settled.  Miss 
Forbes  is  still  at  the  Mission,  a  Miss  Austin,  the  Benson 
man,  and  Huntoon,  our  friend  Huntoon.  He  went  over 
there  at  once  when  the  trouble  began.  It  is  said  that 
the  Chinese  tried  to  keep  him  from  reaching  there — but 
he  evaded  their  fire  and  knives,  and  reached  the  Mission. 
.  .  .  The  rest  of  the  Germans,  fine  men,  and  your  lady's 
father,  are  at  the  Rest  House  now." 

Yuan  drew  closer  to  add: 

"  My  dear  friend,  if  I  shouldn't  get  a  chance  to 
impress  it  upon  you  again,  remember  this:  You  must 
kill  if  necessary.  I  didn't  understand  sufficiently  when  I 
left  you  below  at  the  landing.  I  shall  get  you  plenty  of 
guns  when  you  start  down  the  river.  This  is  war. 
Peking  and  Tien  tsin,  the  legations  and  embassies — 
they  all  knew  it  days  ago.  If  Chinese  come  upon  you 
— you  must  kill — and  kill  first.  That's  your  chance. 
They  haven't  quite  the  real  spirit  of  it  in  Liu  chuan 
yet — or  they  wouldn't  have  stopped  burning  with  the 
schoolhouse,  nor  killing — with  one  German  to-night.  I 
apprehend  real  danger  in  getting  you  away  before 
dawn.  We  must  be  swift  and  masterful.  Another 


66  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

night  and  I  could  not.  .  .  .  There  are  American  and 
British  gun-boats  at  Hankow.  The  foreigners  across 
the  river,  and  you  and  Miss  Romany,  will  not  be  safe 
until  our  river-boats  are  alongside. 

"  You  two  will  be  Chinese  in  an  hour — to  all  appear 
ance — and  together  in  the  smallest  of  the  boats  with 
two  of  my  oldest  servants.  I'll  join  the  Mission  party. 
Your  lady's  father  and  the  three  remaining  Germans 
will  make  up  the  third  boat.  .  .  .  You  white  people  refuse 
to  be  afraid.  It  will  cost  you  many  lives.  Especially 
fearless  is  this  big  angry  man — Mr.  Romany.  He  wanted 
to  come  across  here  to  get  his  daughter;  and  says  he 
has  not  yet  decided  to  leave  Santell  up  the  river.  I 
told  him  I  had  left  a  servant  there.  We  may  have 
trouble  with  him.  You  two  must  not  see  him  before 
the  start.  He  might  detain  you,  or  want  to  take  his 
daughter  back  with  him  for  Santell.  I'm  not  particu 
larly  coherent,  but  there's  considerable  to  think 
about " 

"  I'll  do  exactly  as  you  say.  I  can't  help  wondering 
how  you  managed  to  get  back  here  so  soon." 

"  I  couldn't  rest,  having  left  you  at  the  landing.  It 
was  different,  more  serious  than  I  thought.  Then  since 
the  rain  at  midnight,  the  Chinese  have  been  quiet.  All 
was  well  at  the  Mission.  I  talked  with  the  people  there 
for  a  few  minutes.  Huntoon  has  a  bullet  through  the 
arm,  but  is  cheerful." 

I  was  thinking  about  Yuan's  repeated  admonition 
to  kill. 

"  But  these  are  your  people " 

"  I  know — and  they've  got  their  side.  I'd  be  neutral 
at  best  if  it  were  not  for  you — and  those  across.  You 
are  my  people,  too, — closer  to  me  than  these  natives — 


Yellow  River  67 

except  as  a  whole.  You  would  see — if  it  were  my  own 
life — how  dear  is  China  to  me.  I  impressed  upon  you 
this  need,  because  you  are  slow  to  fear.  You  have 
traveled  here  and  in  Tibet  alone.  Believe  me,  it  is  all 
different  to-night — there  is  a  lust  you  have  never  known 
nor  seen  before.  This  is  the  yellow  foam.  It  isn't  afraid 
of  guns.  The  Fist  of  Righteous  Harmony  is  convinced 
of  its  righteousness." 

As  he  spoke,  Yuan  had  been  gathering  native  cloth 
ing  for  me  and  preparing  a  paste  for  our  faces.  A  maid 
servant  was  helping  in  the  next  room.  We  were  dis 
guised  with  a  perfection  of  Oriental  art  which  passes 
Western  understanding.  Mary  Romany  came  forth 
laughing.  Slight  and  lithe,  and  like  a  boy,  she  seemed, 
in  the  native  garments.  In  her  eyes  was  that  soft 
humid  light  that  made  a  child  and  worshipper  of  me. 
Though  she  laughed  and  whispered — it  was  all  unearthly 
— as  if  we  were  in  a  deep  dream  together.  Santell 
seemed  far  back — waving  from  the  rim  of  another 
world ;  and  her  father,  a  center  of  dynamics  from  whose 
zone  of  attraction  we  were  remotely  passed. 

"  It  won't  wash  off,"  Yuan  was  saying.  "  You  will 
be  Chinese  until  we  reach  Hankow.  Only  do  not  speak. 
I  wish  they  might  be  as  well  concealed  from  China — 
those  across  the  river." 

"  You  look  like  brothers,"  Mary  Romany  said,  to 
Yuan  and  me,  standing  together. 

He  gave  her  two  light  pistols  to  conceal  in  her 
garments.  I  spoke  of  my  guns  and  other  portable  pos 
sessions  across  the  river  at  the  Rest  House. 

A  quick  look  from  Yuan  reminded  me  that  he  did 
not  want  Nicholas  Romany  and  his  daughter  to  meet, 


68  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

before  the  start  down  the  river.  .  .  .  The  Oriental  mind 
conceived  this  reply  further  to  cover  the  situation: 

"  You  might  go  over  with  me,  and  leave  Miss 
Romany  here.  You  see,  the  disguises  complicate.  Ex 
planations  might  be  required  for  the  Germans " 

She  did  not  speak.  The  wall  to  the  garden  had  not 
dismayed  her,  nor  the  native  river-men  who  forced  us 
into  hiding,  nor  accompanying  me  from  Hsi  tin  lin — 
but  her  sudden  sharp  dread  at  being  left  alone  in  Yuan's 
house,  I  sensed  as  keenly  as  if  it  had  been  my  own.  Also 
I  knew  that  Yuan's  intention  was  to  keep  us  together, 
and  at  the  same  time,  apart  from  the  Rest  House. 

"  I'll  not  mention  possessions  again,"  said  I,  and  he 
offered  a  pair  of  pistols  with  a  smile.  Mary  Romany 
caught  her  breath.  I  think  she  had  stopped  breathing. 

We  left  the  house  for  the  landing  a  few  minutes 
past  three.  Yuan  had  decided  to  leave  us  across  the 
river  at  the  foot  of  a  street  in  the  native  quarter,  but 
within  hailing  distance  from  the  boats  ready  to  convey 
the  rest  of  the  party.  Our  junk  meanwhile  had  been 
provisioned  for  several  days.  Three  of  Yuan's  boatmen 
were  taken  for  a  crew.  To  one  of  the  Chinese,  my 
friend  gave  extended  instructions,  a  word  or  sentence 
of  which  I  caught  now  and  then.  The  boat  was  to  be 
in  my  charge,  at  the  moment  the  real  flight  began. 

"  Will  you  signal  us  when  your  boats  are  ready  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  You'll  hear  us  putting  off.  Your  landing  is  but 
a  little  below,"  he  answered.  "  I'll  circle  a  lantern  in 
the  stem  of  the  boat — if  it  is  dark.  You'll  know." 

.  .  .  We  were  crossing  the  river.  The  opposite  wall 
of  the  gorge  was  black.  The  misty  rain  quickened  our 
nostrils  to  the  breath  of  the  sullen  stream.  It  was  dank 


Yellow  River  69 

and  ancient  like  a  cistern.  There  was  no  sound  from 
the  deep  running  current,  from  the  city  across — nor 
from  the  dying  night — only  the  wheedling  roll  of  the 
big  sculling  oars  in  their  polished  thole-pins — and  the 
strain  of  the  poling  against  the  stream. 

11 

THE  smell  of  dawn  was  in  the  air.  Our  boat  was 
made  fast  at  the  foot  of  a  native  street.  A  narrow 
wedge  of  the  city  was  crowded  against  the  cliff;  junks 
were  thick  along  the  bank.  In  one  of  these  nearby,  an 
ignited  wick  swam  in  a  saucer  of  grease — the  only  light 
in  this  quarter  of  river-bank  life.  A  native  woman  sat 
beside  it,  in  the  shelter  of  bamboo-matting,  nursing  a 
child  which  raised  its  head  often  from  her  breast  to  moan 
low  and  piercingly. 

All  other  objects  were  misshapen — varying  shades 
and  densities  of  black;  but  the  smells  were  real  indeed 
— fish,  decay,  stale  black  smoke ;  and  the  sounds  had 
begun  before  our  boat  crept  into  the  torpor  of  the 
shallows — wakening  fowls  from  all  manner  of  incredible 
places,  their  squawks  and  Growings  thrown  back  from 
the  cliffs  with  sharp  accentuation. 

There  was  something  like  death  in  the  stupor  of  the 
natives  behind  the  hutch-doors.  A  dog,  invisible  but 
seemingly  at  the  very  gunwale  of  our  boat,  jerked  at  his 
chain  as  Yuan  stepped  ashore,  and  gave  way  to  low 
muffled  barking,  as  if  he  expected  to  be  beaten  but 
could  not  resist.  The  street's  width  was  barely  a  man's 
span.  The  stone  blocks  of  the  pavement  were  born 
thin  like  sounding  shells;  the  air  was  fetid  with  the 
filth  and  sewage  that  clogged  the  gutters.  A  beggar 


70  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

(again  it  was  as  though  we  could  touch  him  from  the 
gunwale)  stirred  in  some  passage-way,  and  we  heard 
his  mewing  whine. 

This  was  the  China  that  a  friend  of  Yuan  Kang  Su 
would  little  see.  From  this  China,  the  yellow  foam 
arose  like  a  poison,  to  rid  the  Celestial  garment  of  its 
white  parasites.  ...  I  saw  Mary  Romany's  eyes  in  the 
light  of  the  guttering  wick.  They  were  as  countries 
that  stir  and  call  to  a  man. 

"  The  child  is  sick,"  she  whispered. 

...  A  long  time  afterward,  I  looked  at  my  watch, 
which  recorded  a  minute  or  two  after  four-thirty.  There 
was  a  hush  between  us.  How  many  times  in  the  months 
that  followed,  did  I  think  of  those  silent  moments.  I 
could  not  be  sure  in  the  deep-tinged  illusion  of  the 
hour,  that  I  had  actually  told  the  woman  I  loved  her. 
It  seemed  I  had  fallen  into  some  spell  of  the  yellow 
rose  and  dreamed  that  the  words  were  spoken.  .  .  . 

Far  back  we  heard  the  Germans  and  the  Mission 
folk  coming  down  to  the  boats.  The  line  of  sky  above 
the  cliffs  was  now  marked  off  with  gray.  The  clouds 
were  like  smoky  mountains,  and  sheet  lightning  played 
behind  them.  I  watched  for  the  lantern — intent  for  the 
signal  from  Yuan. 

Interminable  minutes,  while  the  dawn  sank  into  the 
dripping  mists  of  the  gorge.  The  day  began  with  a 
shot.  I  shall  always  think  of  that  rifle-shot  as  the  end 
of  the  night.  It  was  a  "  pn-n-ng  "  of  glassy  hardness, 
and  from  the  cavernous  throat  of  the  gorge  came  a 
deep,  round  twanging,  the  repetition  in  bass.  A  woman 
screamed.  I  saw  no  lantern,  but  through  the  mists 
came  the  voice  of  Yuan  Kang  Su  : 

"By  the  rivers  of  Babylon " 


Yellow  River  71 

We  put  off  toward  the  centre,  holding  against  the 
stream  for  a  chance  to  assist  the  others.  A  six-shooter 
crashed — the  whole  cylinder — and  rifles  again.  And 
now  a  bellowing  voice  was  raised.  There  was  a  vast 
rough  effectiveness  about  it — as  you  would  think  of  an 
eagle  screaming  above  other  birds — and  against  it,  dis 
tinct  from  all  other  voices,  was  a  nasal  intonation — a 
white  man  in  prayer. 

"  That's  my  father,"  Mary  Romany  whispered,  hear 
ing  only  the  one. 

"  You  mean  the  big  war-eagle  ?  " 

"  Yes " 

I  had  somehow  wanted  her  father  like  that.  The 
contrast  of  the  puny  voice — the  Reverend  Goethe  Benson 
in  untimely  supplication — and  that  vital  infusion  of 
strength,  pulled  a  laugh  from  me.  There  was  now 
besides,  a  certain  hard-held  excited  monotone  from  the 
Germans.  The  three  junks  emerged  more  plainly  into 
the  light.  The  cliff  of  the  opposite  gorge  was  visible. 
How  different  the  story  had  we  foreigners  cleared  from 
Liu  chuan  in  darkness — even  ten  minutes  earlier. 

Our  boat  was  deepest  in  the  stream.  Infuriated 
natives  were  putting  off  after  the  other  two,  and  the 
Germans  and  Romany  fired  at  them.  .  .  .  And  now  my 
fate  called — a  particular  business  for  Thomas  Ryerson 
at  Yuan's  landing.  It  was  that  empty  metallic  voice  I 
had  heard  in  anger  at  Hsi  tin  lin.  My  name  was  not 
uttered,  nor  any  name.  The  outcry  was  that  of  a  herd- 
creature,  alone  and  being  put  to  death.  The  woman 
glanced  at  me.  I  yelled  to  the  Chinese  to  put  the  boat 
across.  I  have  often  wondered  since,  if  a  certain  dis 
ordering  shadow  had  not  already  fallen  on  my  mind.  .  .  . 

Santell  was  running  along  the  wooded  sludgy  bank 


72  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

— his  knees  lifting  high  like  an  old  man's.  His  head 
looked  small  to  me — small  and  round  like  an  effigy. 
His  voice  was  broken  with  exhaustion.  Natives  were 
at  his  heels,  striking  with  knives,  but  he  would  not 
fall.  .  .  .  Some  fierce  power  of  mine  held  our  punters 
toward  the  shore.  I  would  have  drawn  a  pistol  had 
they  hesitated.  The  voice  and  figure  that  drew  me 
seemed  to  have  no  meaning  for  the  other  boats.  We 
were  withdrawing  from  them.  .  .  .  From  Mary  Romany 
not  one  word  had  come. 

"  Stick  to  it,  old  gamester !  "  I  yelled,  as  we  darted 
into  shore.  ...  I  saw  the  gleam  of  a  pallid  arm  from 
the  foliage  when  Santell  leaped.  He  cried  out  again  as 
the  knife  sank  into  his  thigh.  The  Chinese  followed 
him  into  the  river,  and  I  began  (with  a  sense  of  thawing 
vileness  in  my  body)  to  fire  at  the  heads  in  the  water 
behind  the  white  man.  .  .  .  Santell's  face  turned  up  to 
the  morning  sky — drained,  spectral,  weak  beyond  pity, 
the  eyes  open  and  dull  like  those  of  a  corpse.  There 
was  bubbling  red  behind  him  in  the  water,  and  the 
words  came  mysteriously  out  of  the  welter,  as  I  bent 
forward  to  grasp  him : 

"  I've  spilled  my  blood  for  thirty  miles.  .  .  .  Oh, 
God,  take  them  off " 

The  Chinese  were  like  hungry  reptiles  about  the 
boat — five  of  them  (the  same  party,  I  believe,  that  we 
had  evaded  in  the  night).  An  arm  knifed  Santell 
again,  as  I  dragged  his  body  over  the  gunwale,  shipping 
half  a  boat-full  of  water.  Queerly  the  details  fitted 
into  mind.  Mary  Romany,  at  my  left,  was  firing  her 
pistols.  Our  two  boat-men  took  no  part,  but  waited  for 
me  to  command.  The  air  was  thick  with  bestial  voices. 
.  .  .  Now  I  heard  the  Germans  and  Yuan  and  the  big 


Yellow  River  73 

eagle  behind — the  last,  loudest  and  nearest.  We  were 
sinking.  Santell  lay  half-covered  in  reddened  water, 
his  throat  choked  with  gutturals  of  hideous  memory. 

The  planking  quivered  and  gave  beneath  my  feet. 
Water  was  sucked  over-side — then  a  deluge  against  our 
knees.  I  caught  the  woman's  arm  as  we  sprang  clear. 
...  I  remember  her  look  at  that  moment  of  sinking. 
Awed,  frightened,  adoring,  a  glance  from  her  eyes  to 
mine  that  became  a  part  of  reality,  a  link  to  the  future. 
I  tell  it  because  it  is  marvellously  true.  It  was  the  sus 
taining  of  life — that  look  from  her  eyes. 

Santell  uncovered  an  added  coil  of  energy  from  God 
knows  where — to  keep  afloat.  .  .  .  Mary  Romany  swam 
easily,  I  at  her  side,  my  gun  raised  above  her  head — 
to  keep  off  the  striking  reptiles,  three  of  whom  seemed 
unkillably  intent  upon  our  lives.  .  .  . 

I  heard  her  father's  shout.  The  pistol  was  shot  from 
my  hand.  ...  I  reached  to  take  hers — and  a  second  bullet 
struck  my  shoulder. 

And  now  I  saw  the  marksman — the  giant  Romany 
standing  up  in  the  dawn,  a  repeating-rifle  whipped  to 
his  shoulder — and  turned  upon  me  again. 

"  Don't — "  I  called,  but  he  fired,  and  there  was  ice 
and  flame  in  my  lungs. 

I  was  helpless,  my  legs  shuddering.  They  seemed  to 
reach  for,  and  find,  great  rocks  in  the  river  bottom,  but 
my  eyes  were  held  to  her  father — murdering  me.  I 
looked  into  his  gun  again. 

Mary  Romany  screamed. 

"  Don't — "  I  called,  but  he  fired,  and  there  was  ice 
and  flame  close  to  my  heart. 

.  .  .  And  now  much  became  clear  to  me:  that  I  must 
not  impede  the  woman's  swimming — must  keep  my 


74  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

hands  from  touching  her — that  Nicholas  Romany  had 
recognized  his  daughter,  but  that  my  disguise  had  been 
my  death — that  to  the  eyes  of  her  father,  I  was  one  of 
the  Chinese  assailants,  and  nearest  the  woman — that  I 
was  shot,  and  must  drown  besides.  It  was  well  with 
her.  ...  I  held  myself  rigid,  and  entered  the  green  cold 
silence.  .  .  .  And  then  rebellion  burst  through  me  like 
red  fire — for  I  had  forgotten  to  kiss  the  seam  at  her 
shoulder. 


II 

LONG  ISLAND 


Now,  this  is  a  chapter  of  things  seen  dreamily,  as 
one  looks  back  from  the  Gate — at  the  House  out  of 
order.  ...  It  was  in  the  boat  with  Yuan  and  Jane  Forbes 
that  I  lay.  There  was  Huntoon  as  well,  and  a  German 
doctor  (who  had  changed  places  with  old  Miss  Austin 
of  the  Mission  on  account  of  my  condition),  and  three 
native  boat-men.  Of  one  after  another  of  these,  I  was 
distinctly  conscious  in  the  days  that  followed,  but  Yuan 
was  always  near.  .  .  .  The  questions  that  I  would  ask 
lost  themselves  in  a  brain-mist,  so  that  words  could  never 
form  for  them;  and  the  matters  which  Yuan  told  me 
entered  the  same  mist,  leaving  no  record  there.  Yet, 
in  the  deeper  places  there  was  ease  from  the  things  he 
whispered  in  those  long  pallid  days  and  nights. 

I  remember  the  calling  from  boat  to  boat ;  the  sudden 
shock  of  rifle-firing;  the  cries  of  watchers  in  the  night. 
And  once  (it  was  dusk,  I  do  not  know  of  night  or  morn 
ing),  a  boat  struck  us,  and  the  gasping  gutturals  that  I 
knew  so  well,  were  thick  as  stormy  darkness,  and  our 
boat  was  rimmed  with  gun-fire.  Huntoon  fell  across  my 
knees,  hit  again,  but  apologizing  bitterly  for  hurting  me. 
It  was  all  black,  and  I  was  hot  and  stifling  with  blood 
fresh  from  my  wounds. 

I  remember  conning  curiously  over  the  layers  of  life 
in  a  man.  There  was  one  that  belonged  to  my  chest 
and  limbs,  of  remote  acquaintance  to  consciousness  this, 
— just  a  wrestle  of  agony  in  the  morning  before  the 
fever  mounted,  a  breathing  from  the  throat,  half-choked 
with  thirst,  and  all  below  the  throat  bruised  and  seared. 

77 


78  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

I  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  this  layer.  Second,  the  brain- 
mists  which  only  a  shock  could  penetrate.  Then  there 
was  a  dogged  toiler  that  worked  with  no  will  of  mine; 
down  to  the  very  heart  of  misery  it  went,  and  held  there, 
toiling  with  the  fires,  as  stokers  in  the  hold  of  a  ship 
that  may  sink.  This  is  a  man's  vitality  from  his  fathers. 
Finally,  there  was  a  spirit  that  carried  me,  as  on  a 
strong  wind,  out  of  junk  and  body  and  brain-mist;  yet 
with  all  its  journeyings  and  all  its  fluent  consciousness, 
faint,  hardly  traceable  gravures  were  left  upon  the 
memory. 

Many  times  I  fell  from  high  places,  as  one  does  in 
the  beginning  of  sleep.  Once  (Yuan  told  me  of  this)  I 
squinted  up  at  him  to  inquire  if  that  were  not  a  neat 
dive.  I  had  seen  him  from  the  sea,  and  he  was  far  up 
on  the  cliffs  of  Oporto.  .  .  .  Often,  from  a  distance  I 
heard  Mary  Romany  playing  the  Chopin  Lar ghetto.  We 
whispered  in  many  temples  and  gardens,  and  always  I 
was  looking  for  a  yellow  rose  in  whose  enchantment  a 
lover  might  find  his  voice.  .  .  .  Once  again  I  heard  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  summon  me — a  voice  that  would 
pierce  my  consciousness  in  a  death-trance — the  big  eagle 
calling  across  the  water  from  another  boat: 

"And'how's  the  boy  this  morning?" 

Yuan  answered,  and  then  I  heard  the  added  sentence : 

"  That  was  the  most  satisfactory  bit  of  bad  shooting 
I  ever  did." 

Directly  afterward,  I  heard  Mary  Romany's  voice — 
though  no  words  are  left  with  me.  Yet  once,  much 
later,  I  seemed  to  hear  her  say,  "  We  have  been  real 
comrades — but  I  am  hidden  in  perils  from  you — and 
those  who  belong  to  me,  seem  to  be  intent  upon  your 
death.  .  .  .'«• 


Long  Island  79 

I  saw  her  face,  blanched  with  terror  and  her  hair 
with  white  in  it.  That  cry  of  Mary  Romany  from  the 
face  of  the  water,  as  her  father  raised  the  rifle  a  last 
time — that  was  eternal.  But  more  than  all  I  saw  her 
eyes  (the  boat  sinking  beneath  our  feet  and  the  Chinese 
striking  at  us  from  the  river),  the  eyes  of  Mary  Romany 
with  a  look  in  them  for  me,  lovelier  than  any  hope, 
triumphant  price  of  many  deaths. 

And  once  I  looked  out  and  the  river  was  broader, 
— the  banks  lowered  and  far  apart,  yellow  sunlight  upon 
the  water.  .  .  .  Often,  Yuan  sat  near,  and  I  could  see  a 
haggard  and  emaciated  Huntoon,  farther  back  under  the 
mattings,  smiling  at  me. 

.  .  .  There  was  one  night — like  a  black  camel, 
crippled  unto  death,  dragging  its  way  across  a  desert. 
...  I  saw,  in  the  light  of  a  held  lantern,  Huntoon's  arm 
bared  to  the  shoulder,  blood  spurting  from  it  like  a 
spring — Jane  Forbes  laving  and  binding  the  wound,  shut 
ting  her  eyelids  to  press  out  the  tears,  the  better  to  see. 
"  You  are  brave,  Mr.  Huntoon,"  she  said.  "  We  all 
should  have  been  dead  without  you."  ...  He  called  it  a 
scratch  and  laughed  weakly.  His  face  was  sunken,  the 
skin  gray-white  like  dust,  the  lips  white,  the  eyelids 
pulled  together.  .  .  . 

Yet  it  was  in  the  long  pallid  nights  that  strange 
things  would  happen  to  the  mists  in  my  brain,  as  if 
they  parted  for  the  night  winds.  The  big  sheet  of  mat 
ting  above  my  head  would  talk  to  its  mate,  the  river- 
wind  ;  and  I  could  feel  the  tug  of  the  current  beneath 
— wind  and  current  and  oar  hurrying  us  out  of  the 
Malignant  Country.  ...  I  remember  low  lights  pricking 
the  shore — and  the  heads  of  Yuan  and  Jane  Forbes  close 
together,  their  low  voices  mingling  with  the  monotone  of 


80  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  sail.  That  time  the  legs  of  the  native  boat-men,  in 
the  gleam  of  moon  or  river  light,  were  like  dragons 
with  writhing  necks.  ...  I  seemed  to  have  a  fellow  under 
standing  with  Huntoon.  He  was  off  his  head,  too,  from 
the  fever  that  comes  in  when  the  blood  goes  out.  Once 
he  thought  he  was  drinking  again — and  he  hadn't  meant 
to.  Once  he  revealed  the  white  inner  scroll  of  his  heart 
where  the  taint  of  wild  living  had  never  reached,  and 
the  record  of  a  clean  love  was  hidden.  .  .  .  Yuan,  the 
woman's  lover,  listened  and  wept — as  the  mumbling 
words  of  the  man  who  could  never  be  his  rival,  trailed 
out  to  the  wide  night. 

...  At  last  there  was  a  quick  curve  in  the  big  river, 
and  all  were  awake,  though  it  was  my  lone  part  of  the 
night.  ...  I  saw  a  great  field  of  lights  on  the  left  bank 
— gun-boats  and  Hankow.  All  I  knew  for  a  long  time 
was  that  Mary  Romany  should  be  near  me  now.  .  .  . 
Jane  Forbes  was  standing  by,  her  face  craned  outward 
to  avoid  the  matting,  the  first  glow  of  morning  in  her 
eyes.  ...  I  didn't  understand — only  that  it  was  some 
change,  some  crossing  of  eternity  and  the  end  of  river- 
junks.  Heart  and  soul,  I  was  waiting  for  Mary  Romany, 
because  this  was  a  crossing.  Surely  she  must  meet  me 
at  every  life-crossing.  .  .  .  The  dawn  was  a  great  gray 
temple  with  crimson  foundations.  The  sun  lifted  itself,  a 
flaming  disk  of  orange-red,  with  the  black  boom  of  a 
clipper  man-of-war  carved  against  the  arc. 

Sailors  were  lifting  Huntoon  to  the  deck  of  a  ship. 
The  native  boat  men  near  me  watched  raptly  and 
whispered,  for  this  man  had  done  much  to  keep  the  fear 
of  violent  death  in  their  hearts.  Having  that,  they  served 
us  well.  ..."  Save  him  all  the  suffering  you  can.  He 


Long  Island  81 

is  one  of  the  bravest  men  in  China,"  Jane  Forbes  called 
softly,  to  those  standing  above. 

Another  small  boat  was  near.  The  whining  voice  of 
him  who  had  prayed  was  lightly  animate  now.  I  had 
not  heard  it  since  the  prayer,  but  I  knew.  Safely  out  of 
the  valley  of  the  shadow,  it  had  found  itself  again.  The 
Reverend  Goethe  Benson  of  the  Mission  was  speaking 
to  any  who  would  listen.  Low,  incessant,  unctuous,  that 
voice, — a  maddening  play  upon  the  nerves.  It  seemed 
to  ungarb  some  horror  for  Janes  Forbes;  something 
came  from  it  that  poisoned  her.  I  saw  her  face,  and  so 
did  an  English  correspondent,  who  left  Benson  to  find 
out  from  the  woman  what  her  look  meant.  .  .  . 

Then  I  was  lifted — up,  up,  it  seemed,  into  a  dry, 
brassy  light  that  devoured  my  life,  for  I  belonged  to 
mists  and  darkness — I,  Thomas  Ryerson,  waiting  for 
the  woman.  She  must  come  soon,  before  the  full  day, 
or  I  should  have  to  go.  I  told  Yuan  my  trouble — Mary 
Romany  was  to  meet  me  here — and  that  I  must  not  go 
away  until  she  came.  .  .  . 

And  then  I  knew  nothing,  save  the  battle  to  remain, 
to  keep  the  mists  away.  Death  was  nothing — if  she 
would  come.  Pain  was  nothing.  There  was  nothing 
that  I  wanted — neither  water,  ease,  nor  life — only  her 
voice  and  hand.  The  light  closing  around  my  eyes  was 
not  earth  light.  The  old  suffocation  was  bringing  its 
thickness.  I  was  full  of  sorrow  and  shame,  for  not 
proving  strong  enough  to  hold  the  Crossing  until  she 
came. 

...  It  must  have  been  some  time   afterward.     I 

heard  her  voice  long,  long  before  it  brought  me  back — 

and  even  then  there  was  a  shadow  which  I  could  not 

penetrate.     I  fancied  she  came — and  then  I  was  sure. 

6 


82  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Her  words,  though  I  did  not  understand  them,  fell  like 
healing  upon  the  very  centres  of  pain,  and  the  lovely 
magnetism  from  her  hands  crossed  my  shut  eyelids,  with 
an  ease  and  a  releasing  of  evil,  such  as  the  good  must 
feel,  when  the  wings  of  the  spirit  spread  wide  to  the 
winds  of  daybreak. 

I  wanted  to  hear  her  words  aright,  but  that  was  not 
given  me.  Yet  I  know  Yuan  told  her  how  I  had  waited 
through  the  night  and  the  dawn.  .  .  .  Yes,.  I  heard  his 
voice,  and  another — and  still  another,  the  big  eagle's — 
just  the  voices,  not  the  meanings.  Now,  I  knew  she  was 
going;  that  this  was  just  a  hand  at  the  Crossing.  We 
were  not  to  be  together  against  the  stream.  A  Yellow 
Land  was  about  us  and  a  Yellow  War. 

Her  face  came  into  my  deeper  life — Mary  Romany 
as  she  bent  forward.  The  river-crisis  had  touched  the 
hair  at  her  temples,  sunk  its  pallor  deep  beneath  the 
bloom,  and  left  the  terror  of  its  passing  in  the  mystic 
darkness  of  her  eyes. 

A  woman  was  there  where  the  girl  had  been.  Other 
men  must  have  realized  this  with  the  same  furious 
intensity  of  meaning,  so  that  I  wonder  it  is  not  common 
among  the  revelations  of  talk  and  art.  I  felt  that  I  could 
speak  to  Mary  Romany  now — that  she  was  a  world- 
centre  for  me — that  China  had  shattered  all  cloying 
self-consciousness. 

Something  eternal  had  happened.  We  who  had  never 
been  strangers  in  spirit — were  no  longer  strangers  in 
flesh.  Passion  and  labor — she  had  never  meant  to  me 
before — but  these  and  all  that  moves  in  the  light  of 
common  day,  flooded  into  the  spaciousness  of  woman 
hood  which  I  now  perceived — the  toil  of  hands,  the  ser 
vice  of  pain,  the  anguish  of  babes  and  the  glory,  the 


Long  Island  83 

kiss  of  passion  and  the  kiss  of  motherhood,  weariness 
of  flesh  and  falterings  of  spirit,  all  these  that  make 
life  and  test  love,  gathered  in  apse  and  nave  and  ciborium 
— but  the  lustre  of  ideals  bravely  filled  the  finished 
cathedral  and  a  starrier  worship. 

But  I  am  interpreting  what  was  just  a  flash  then — 
a  flash  of  the  wondrous  miracle :  a  woman's  illumination 
for  man's  eyes,  the  prepared  woman  who  was  but  a 
maid  before. 

.  .  .  They  were  calling  Mary  Romany  .  .  .  and  she 
wept,  her  kiss  upon  my  forehead.  And  then  from  her 
breast  as  she  leaned,  came  to  my  nostrils  the  secret  of 
all  life,  the  essence  of  life — fragrance  of  the  yellow  rose 
that  bloomed  imperishably  for  me  in  her  breast.  .  .  . 
It  brought  the  old  words  to  my  lips,  as  it  would  out  of 
death,  if  she  bent  close.  .  .  .  And  she  made  the  words 
come  again — and  laughed  and  kissed  and  wept  and  went 
away. 


How  blind  and  young  were  we  of  the  outer  nations. 
Of  course  we  had  our  way.  The  siege  of  the  legations 
at  Peking  was  lifted ;  the  Forbidden  City  utterly  profaned 
by  lusting,  looting  foreigners;  the  Chinese  Court  forced 
to  flee  for  its  life ;  the  Fist  of  Righteous  Harmony  with 
drawn,  badly  bruised  to  its  sling;  the  third  of  a  billion 
demanded,  and  punitive  expeditions  sent  throughout  the 
northern  Empire  to  kill  ten  for  one 

"  In  short,  we  are  disciplined,"  said  Yuan.  "  When 
our  Chinese  venture  out  into  the  few  places  of  the 
Christian  world,  where  they  are  not  excluded,  they  are 
dehumanized.  Yet  the  Christians  come  here.  We  find 
them  our  inferiors,  seek  to  do  away  with  their  dull 


84  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

godless  propaganda.  We  know  their  Christ  and  their 
Bible  better  than  they,  but  they  build  their  drab  nests, 
and  continue  to  infest — perceiving  not  our  pleasure,  nor 
taking  hint.  Finally  we  seek  to  drive  them  out  by 
force " 

This  was  hard  listening,  because  it  was  known  at 
Peking  that  Yuan  had  helped  us.  That  taint  was  upon 
him.  I  spoke  of  what  he  had  done.  There  was  nothing 
else  to  say. 

"  I  would  do  all  that  again,  and  better,"  he  said.  "  I 
loved  you — and  was  called  to  test.  I  shall  be  made  to 
suffer  for  that.  Those  who  fled  from  the  Forbidden 
City  do  not  ask  their  servants  to  explain.  They  do  not 
care  to  rival  a  man's  loves,  nor  friends.  My  affair  is 
only  mine.  I  was  thinking  of  the  large  relation " 

He  was  pale,  a  trifle  terrified  in  realizing  the  great 
pressure  of  insensate  force  from  the  outer  nations. 

We  were  in  Shanghai,  and  it  was  now  ten  weeks 
since  the  flight  down  the  river.  Still  prostrate,  I  was 
being  born  again  in  the  flesh.  It  appears  that  the  old 
tissue  had  been  very  tenacious  to  hold  life  until  the  new 
formed — for  I  had  been  badly  hit.  Four  contributions 
from  the  Romany  rifle-magazine  had  gone  through 
various  parts, — small  steel  fliers  that  would  have 
penetrated  five  men  like  me,  though  I  am  not  narrow 
in  lung  nor  shoulder.  My  limbs  were  like  dried  river 
beds.  A  year,  they  said,  before  I  should  be  worth  while 
again. 

...  I  had  not  seen  Mary  Romany  since  the  morning 
before  Hankow.  Indeed,  there  had  been  little  of 
physical  vision  for  me  in  that  meeting.  Again  it  was 
Santell  that  kept  us  apart.  The  man  was  Nemesis  to 
me — always  calling  from  the  other  shore.  .  .  .  The  third 


Long  Island  85 

boat  which  contained  the  Romanys  was  an  hour  behind 
us  in  reaching  Hankow.  Huntoon  and  I  were  the  last 
wounded  that  could  be  cared  for  on  the  French  hospital- 
ship  La  Samaritaine.  Yuan  understood  how  I  wanted 
Mary  Romany,  but  he  was  afraid  for  my  life;  afraid  to 
have  me  moved  again.  The  French  officers  glanced  at 
Santell,  knifed  from  neck  to  knee,  and  would  not  take 
him  on.  The  decks  were  already  over-crowded  with 
cots.  The  American  nurse-ship,  Orderly,  was  coming  up 
the  river.  Everything  was  hurried,  and  scantily  under 
stood.  Mary  Romany  agreed  with  my  friend  to  take  no 
chance  that  would  irritate  those  who  must  care  for  me. 
Mary  thought  we  would  be  separated  only  for  the  pas 
sage  down  the  river  to  Shanghai.  And  so,  with  her 
father  and  Santell,  she  waited  for  the  Orderly  to  drop 
anchor.  All  were  grateful  for  expert  care  in  my  behalf 
at  any  cost. 

Then  La  Samaritaine  sailed  down  the  river  and  cruised 
a  week  at  sea,  finally  landing  me  at  the  German  port 
Kiao  chow.  The  rebellion  was  at  its  height.  All  China 
was  disrupted.  The  American  ship  Orderly — was  else 
where  sailing.  Reaching  Shanghai  at  last,  I  was  still 
physically  helpless. 

"You  must  think,"  said  Yuan,  "that  it  is  just  as 
hard  for  Miss  Romany.  She  is  trying  to  find  you. 
This  is  war — and  you  are  both  well.  You  would  know 
if  it  were  otherwise " 

Here  Yuan  smiled.  ...  I  had  been  taught  to  wait. 
At  Shanghai  we  learned  that  the  Orderly  had  anchored 
two  weeks  in  Hankow ;  then,  filled  with  sick  and 
wounded,  had  come  down  the  river  and  sailed  for 
Nagasaki.  There  was  a  letter  for  me  at  the  American 
consulate  in  Shanghai.  I  had  left  one  there  (written  by 


86  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Yuan)  a  month  before.  Mary  Romany  was  as  deeply 
in  the  dark  as  I.  ...  Santell  lived.  Her  father  was  not 
mentioned.  I  felt  the  throb  of  her  horror  as  a  sentence 
of  the  letter  bore  her  back  to  that  dawn  before  Liu 
chuan.  I  could  see  the  gray  at  her  temples  and  the  more 
salient  contour  between  the  temple  and  cheek.  .  .  .  Some 
time  soon  we  would  meet  again,  she  wrote.  She  sent 
her  heart's  dearest  wish,  and  her  mind's  deepest  anxiety. 
...  It  was  the  first  letter  I  had  ever  received  from  Mary 
Romany.  It  was  sad  in  its  great-heartedness. 

And  now  to  end  briefly  this  lamentable  missing  period 
of  ships  and  cables  and  ports:  Yuan  cabled  at  once  to 
Nagasaki.  The  Romanys  had  sailed  north  on  the  Coptic 
— five  days  before.  It  was  too  late  to  catch  the  Coptic  at 
Kobe;  but  a  cablegram  was  instantly  dispatched,  care 
American  Consulate  at  Yokohama.  .  .  .  The  answer: 
"  Letter  here  for  Thomas  Ryerson.  Romany  party  sailed 
for  San  Francisco  on  Coptic  this  morning." 

Yuan  bent  over  me  saying :  "  I  cabled  to  forward 
letter  here,  my  friend.  She's  safe  at  sea  for  ten  days. 
We  can  catch  her  by  cable  at  Honolulu  and  five  days 
later  at  San  Francisco — and  then  when  you  can  travel 
— it's  on  we'll  go — and  she'll  be  waiting " 

He  held  me  from  the  abyss  into  which  I  would  have 
fallen.  ...  I  used  to  ask  him  why  he  was  so  good  to 
me.  He  seemed  to  think  if  he  had  not  been  with  me 
three  or  four  weeks  previously,  he  would  have  missed 
the  intention  of  Fate  when  he  met  Jane  Forbes  back 
on  the  cliffs  and  Liu  chuan. 

The  letter  from  Mary  Romany  arrived  from 
Yokohama.  She  was  sailing  in  despair.  She  knew  that 
we  had  meant  to  go  to  the  States  as  soon  as  I  could 
stand  the  passage;  was  not  sure  that  I  had  not  already 


Long  Island  87 

gone.  The  heart-message  was  different  but  dearer.  She 
gave  her  San  Francisco  and  New  York  addresses.  .  .  . 
I  counted  the  hours  after  that,  until  she  could  get  my 
cable  in  Honolulu.  .  .  .  The  Coptic  made  good  time,  for 
almost  at  the  hour  when  I  was  thinking  of  her  creeping 
into  that  far  sweet  harbor — her  message  flashed  back  to 
me: 

Thank  you.  Grateful.  Relieved.  Address  as  designated 
Frisco  and  New  York.  Come  when  passage  is  easy.  Letter 
left  here. 

"  Yuan,"  I  said  that  night,  as  a  cool  wind  came 
through  our  open  windows  across  the  Bund  from  the 
river.  "  Yuan,  did  you  ever  read  about  old  Madame 
Defarge  in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities ?" 

"  Yes — she  who  brewed  hell  with  her  knitting " 

"  Exactly." 

"Well ?" 

"  I'm  knitting  just  like  that — steadily,  swiftly  knitting. 
...  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  could  stretch  and  take  a  long 
breath." 

"  Don't— not  yet,"  said  Yuan. 


THE  Manfrisia  was  about  to  clear  from  the  roadstead 
off  Woosung.  Huntoon  was  waiting  for  the  last  whistle 
of  the  launch  alongside  that  was  to  take  him  back  to 
Shanghai.  We  had  seen  very  little  of  him,  since  his 
discharge  from  La  Samaritmne,  as  if  he  hesitated  to 
impose  an  up-river  friendliness  upon  us  now  in  travel- 
lines.  Yuan  had  talked  with  him  for  many  minutes 
alone.  He  was  taking  farewell  of  Jane  Forbes  with  a 


88  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

queer  embarrassed  smile.  Her  eyes  seemed  so  dry  that 
they  must  ignite. 

"  No,  I'm  not  to  go  back  to  Liu  chuan  for  the 
present,"  he  said.  "  I'm  apt  to  follow  you  rather  close 
to  the  States.  They've  had  the  story  of  that  night  at 
the  Mission  back  in  St.  Louis — and  my  father  has  com 
manded  me  to  report " 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  "but  why  not  this  ship?" 

This  had  been  the  first  question  Yuan  had  asked. 

"  It's  too  late  now." 

The  launch  whistled.  We  were  at  the  ladder  to 
gether.  I  told  Huntoon  he  had  shown  me  a  new  way 
of  being  a  man.  Yuan  spoke  a  better  sentence.  Jane 
Forbes  whispered  the  last  seconds  away — strength  of 
soul  pouring  from  her.  .  .  .  His  feet  stumbled  as  he 
turned  to  the  ladder.  He  was  below  in  the  launch  before 
venturing  a  look.  He  had  caught  his  nerve  again  after 
our  outpouring,  and  laughed  in  his  jovial  fashion.  .  .  . 

"  And  when  I  see  the  slung  arm  and  the  lonely  eyes," 
Jane  Forbes  said,  tears  trickling  through  her  fingers, 
"  it  seems  I  can  hardly  endure — for  the  pity  of  it.  Oh, 
how  good  men  can  be." 

That  night,  after  the  woman  had  gone  to  her  state 
room,  Yuan  told  me  a  little  of  what  had  happened  at  the 
Mission  that  last  night,  and  something  of  Huntoon's 
part: 

"  About  the  time  the  German  was  murdered  on  the 
cliffs,  they  discovered  at  the  Mission  that  all  the  servants 
had  fled.  The  Reverend  Benson  was  there  alone  with 
the  women — and  it  appears  he  groveled  a  bit.  There 
was  shooting,  when  Huntoon  burst  in.  The  Elder,  who 
formerly  had  been  unfriendly,  now  embraced  the  knees 
of  the  remittance-man;  and  old  Miss  Austin,  who  is  a 


Long  Island  89 

good  deal  of  an  angel,  implored  Huntoon  to  smoke  in 
all  parts  of  the  house,  when  he  asked  if  he  might  light 
a  cigarette  in  the  kitchen. 

"  As  Miss  Austin  was  making  coffee,  a  bullet  drilled 
through  the  glass  of  the  front  window,  and  made  a 
gouging  ricochet  upon  the  oaken  table  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  Elder  fell.  It  was  a  faint,  however.  He  was 
not  touched.  His  repeated  comment  was  '  I  am  a  man 
of  peace.'  Huntoon  noted  that  the  window  shades  were 
white  and  thin,  so  that  a  figure  passing  between  them 
and  the  light  would  be  seen  outside.  He  turned  the 
lamps  low ;  and,  never  far  from  his  rifles  and  six-shooters, 
kept  the  women  alive  by  telling  stories  of  his  own  early 
days.  You  know  how  he  talks  about  himself — not  rue 
fully,  always  of  the  past,  and  with  his  own  inimitable 
Americanisms. 

"  After  a  while  they  heard  the  '  snick — snick ' — a 
fire  on  the  roof.  Huntoon  went  up.  The  schoolhouse 
was  already  burning.  Of  course,  the  Chinese  were  wait 
ing  when  he  appeared  in  the  glow,  and  they  began  to 
fire.  Huntoon  stayed  there,  however,  taking  pails  from 
the  women  below,  until  the  fire  was  extinguished.  The 
Chinese  had  tossed  up  a  blazing  ball  of  tinder.  About 
this  time  the  rain  started,  so  danger  of  fire  was  about 
over.  Huntoon  let  himself  down,  and  they  saw  he  was 
shot.  It  splintered  the  bone  of  his  arm.  He  was  hit 
again  on  the  river,  you  know,  same  arm,  but  not  so 
badly.  Miss  Forbes  was  binding  the  wound  and  things 
were  quieter  when  I  got  there. 

"  Then,  you  remember  I  came  back  to  you  and  Miss 
Romany  at  my  house.  I  didn't  tell  you  exactly  then. 
A  strange  thing  had  happened  at  the  Mission.  The 
Germans  didn't  understand  I  was  arranging  to  take  care 


90  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of  the  Mission  folk.  They  sent  word  over  that  they 
could  take  two,  possibly  three,  of  the  women,  down  the 
river  in  their  boat — but  not  more.  .  .  .  '  There  are  only 
six  of  us/  Benson  said.  Miss  Forbes  and  Miss  Austin 
at  once  volunteered  to  wait  for  me,  and  the  Elder  then 
asked  if  there  was  not  room  for  four.  He  was  truly  a 
man  of  peace,"  Yuan  finished,  with  a  queer  native 
gesture,  pressing  his  arm  against  his  breast. 

"  And  what  did  the  Germans  say  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  They  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  Benson.  Three 
of  the  women  finally  went  in  their  boat." 

I  was  thinking  of  the  prayer  I  had  heard  in  the 
dawn-light  against  the  background,  as  it  were,  of 
Nicholas  Romany's  inspiriting  roar. 

"  Huntoon  is  a  tender  subject  with  me,"  Yuan  con 
cluded.  "  He  was  a  strong  man  for  us  on  the  river  in 
those  five  days — wounded  and  fevered  though  he  was. 
It  was  only  at  the  last  that  he  gave  up.  I  would  like  to 
do  much  for  him.  He  said  he  would  come  to 
Washington." 

I  wondered  if  Huntoon  had  promised  this,  in  his 
anxiety  to  be  away.  He  could  endure  a  night  attack 
more  gracefully  than  a  group  of  friends  making  much 
of  him.  I  wondered  also  if  Huntoon  had  seen  what  I 
had  observed  already  in  the  faces  of  the  passengers,  when 
they  noted  a  Chinese  and  a  white  woman  standing  and 
talking  together. 

Yuan  had  not  been  spared  the  revelations  of  the 
remittance-man  in  that  hour  of  delirium  when  he  gave 
up  his  heart's  truth.  Had  Huntoon  known,  we  would 
never  have  seen  him  again.  .  .  .  And  the  others  had 
passed  out  of  our  lives — old  Miss  Austin,  the  Reverend 
Goethe  Benson ;  Miss  Lamson,  who  was  last  seen  listen- 


Long  Island  91 

ing  to  the  Elder;  the  other  two  women  of  the  Mission, 
and  the  Germans.  We  pluck  a  friend  or  lover  from  a 
certain  passage  in  the  world;  and  behind  the  stirring 
intimacy,  there  is  left  only  a  vague  movement  of  forms 
and  faces — mere  shells  emptied  of  their  vitality  to  furnish 
our  heart  its  peculiar  knight  or  heroine. 

.  .  .  Yuan  scarcely  ate  or  slept  that  voyage.  The 
man  lived  electrically,  drawing  his  forces  from  sun  and 
cloud  and  sea  and  wind.  The  people  of  the  ship  had 
shocked  him.  .  .  .  The  woman  was  stronger.  I  was 
avoided  by  the  passengers,  and  scorned  the  cabin-folks 
who  drew  apart,  and  who  took  care  that  the  two  should 
see.  In  China,  the  lovers  had  been  permitted  to  forget. 

Jane  Forbes  smiled  into  the  hard  face  of  the  world. 
A  woman  has  the  finer  courage.  She  could  do  more 
than  smile;  she  could  put  the  distortion  out  of  mind. 
A  woman  loves  one-pointedly  ;  with  her  whole  nature. 
A  man  loves  with  one  hand  on  the  world's  pulse,  and  an 
alien  conjecture  in  his  soul.  Jane  Forbes  could  pity  the 
poor  people  who  knew  not  her  happiness.  To  Yuan  the 
ship's  company  was  a  microcosm,  holding  all  the  world- 
elements  hostile  to  his  love  and  to  his  work.  As  America 
hated  him  in  her  company,  so  China  hated  her  with  him. 
Yuan  knew  that  his  love  must  temper  every  breath 
Jane  Forbes  drew — that  every  thought  of  her  from  out 
side  was  poison — that  she  was  put  away  in  the  minds 
of  common  men  and  women,  shudderingly  among  the 
perversions — that  behind  her  pale  face  they  reared,  from 
images  of  their  own,  the  passion  abnormal.  A  Chinese 
by  her  side,  and  within  her  a  monster  awakened.  Yuan 
was  her  confession. 

I  knew  these  two,  and  my  veins  ran  with  hatred.  I 
had  lived  the  boyhood  of  a  prince,  every  culture  offered 


92  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

me  ;  and  yet,  I  was  joyfully  a  disciple  before  the  mind 
of  my  friend.  In  spirit,  Yuan  Kang  Su  had  mastered 
me — in  age  and  strength  and  concentration.  His  thought 
was  purer,  less  self-conscious  than  mine.  His  stirring 
masculinity  never  up-rose  to  blur  with  red  his  brain. 
As  for  courage  which  men  speak  of  first  in  a  man's 
making,  I  had  seen  Yuan  Kang  Su  in  black  night  and 
brilliant  noon.  He  had  all  but  died  for  me. 

And  Jane  Forbes — there  was  strength.  Beauty  of 
brain  or  body  she  had  not,  as  we  know  them  distantly, 
but  the  great  silent  mystic  bringing  forth  of  Mother 
Earth,  she  had, — all  things  in  season.  Grand  elements 
were  in  her,  whose  fairest  fruits  are  spiritual  heroism 
and  prophecy.  I  had  seen  that  plain  face  turn  and 
recognize  its  lover.  That  was  more  important  than 
China  or  America  to  me.  She  had  seen  the  man  who 
could  shine  her  sleeping  forces  into  creation,  and  lo, 
upon  her  there  was  light. 

There  was  one  time  on  the  voyage  that  she  said 
"  Good-night,"  and  a  loveliness  came  forth  from  her 
spirit  to  me  that  made  the  plain  face  inspired. 

"  Sometime  I  shall  sit  at  your  feet,  Jane  Forbes," 
my  mind  said,  as  a  curve  of  her  shoulder  vanished  in  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  Like  a  dream  it  came  to  me,  that  com 
pared  to  her  Past,  China  was  but  a  sick  babe,  and  the 
Americas  unborn;  that  she  had  borne  seers  when  the 
Orient  was  new,  and  bathed  their  tired  feet  when  they 
were  men ;  that  it  had  not  been  hers  to  listen  and  under 
stand,  but  to  labor  and  bring  forth.  .  .  .  She  was  Mother 
— mother  of  masters. 

I  seemed  to  see  Yuan  Kang  Su  and  Jane  Forbes 
working  out  an  immoral  destiny,  with  that  strength  of 
spirit  that  laughs  at  to-day,  and  perceives  its  own  from 


Long  Island  93 

afar.  I  was  afraid  they  saw  each  other  too  clearly  to 
hasten  to  happiness  along  the  pitiless  road  they  had  now 
taken.  I  was  afraid  they  could  meet  and  go  their  way 
— to  meet  again  when  the  races  of  men  were  not  variously- 
hued,  save  by  a  greater  or  lesser  lustre  of  soul,  and 
nations  were  not,  but  one  brotherhood  of  man. 


"  BUT,  Yuan,"  I  said,  for  what  I  had  seen  on  the 
ship  was  burning  me,  "  you  have  a  real  home — up  the 
river.  None,  none  of  these  things  could  pass  that 
garden  wall." 

"  I  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  thought  of  that." 
He  was  silent  a  moment  and  then  laughed.  "  We  might 
enjoy  the  yellow  roses." 

"  Yellow  roses  are  a  tender  subject  with  me,"  I  said. 

"  Thomas " 

We  always  smiled  when  he  began  this  way.  His 
upper  lip  invariably  flickered  over  my  name. 

"  Yes." 

"  Thomas,  do  you  think  a  woman  could  be  a  man's 
country,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  his  career." 

"  You  think  a  woman  feels  honored  in  being  a  man's 
career  and  country  as  well  as  his — mate  ?  " 

"  Yes.     She  would  make  him  king." 

He  laughed  again.  "  Don't  you  know  a  woman 
needs  to  be  shocked  now  and  then  by  a  man's  prowess 
— in  that  world  which  she  does  not  enter  ?  " 

"Shocked?" 

"  Yes.  If  the  king  raised  yellow  roses,  and  did 
not  send  them  out  of  the  garden,  the  queen  would  soon 


94  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

forget  the  genius  of  their  culture.  The  queen  needs 
the  word  to  come  in  from  another  king,  '  Never  were 
there  such  yellow  roses  as  this  fellow  produces.'  Shocked, 
is  the  word,  Thomas.  Don't  you  see  that  a  woman 
loves  her  mate  more  because  he  brings  home  from  the 
hunt — the  fiercest  blue  boar,  the  mightiest  elk — at  the 
end  of  day?  Then  she  turns  the  eyes  of  her  children 
to  the  man  as  he  rests,  saying :  '  See  what  a  great  man 
can  do,  my  babies.  Look  well  to  be  like  him — for  he 
is  all.' " 

"  The  times  are  insane  with  that  reasoning,"  said  I 
bitterly.  "  The  wildest  boar,  the  bulkiest  stag,  the 
gaudiest  robe — why,  Yuan,  the  world  is  rotten  with 
fighters  and  merchants  who  live  by  that.  And  women 
are  not  happy.  Chinese  women  are  not  happy.  Women 
are  not  happy  in  the  States.  All  want  men,  lovers ;  they 
want  children,  not  bred  for  margins  and  maiming  each 
other.  Women  want  lovers — who  can  knock  at  the  doors 
of  the  inner  life  where  the  beautiful  mysteries  and  the 
lovelier  children  are.  Women  everywhere  are  ready  for 
that — and  modern  manhood  is  not  making  good." 

"  There  shall  be  a  night  of  talk  in  Washington,"  said 
Yuan.  "You  and  I  and  another  shall  talk — another 
Chinese  man.  .  .  .  But  after  all,  Jane  Forbes  will  see  the 
way.  She  thinks  with  her  soul — as  the  gods  do.  Some 
time  it  will  come  up  to  her  brain — a  full-winged  decision 
— and  she  will  say,  '  Come  with  me,  Yuan — '  or  '  My 
friend — we  must  go  different  ways  for  the  present.  It 
has  been  sweet  together — a  tryst  to  remember  until  we 
meet  again.' "  •• 

I  shut  my  eyes  before  this  vivid  picture  of  their 
parting.  .  .  .  And  then  my  mind  searched  America — 
ahead  in  the  starless  sea  distance.  Where  was  Mary 


Long  Island  95 

Romany  this  night,  and  what  had  she  to  say  to  me? 
The  same  forces  that  hung  the  stars  and  turned  them 
from  the  light,  inclined  the  hearts  of  such  women  to  a 
lover's  desire, — or  gathered  up  a  universe  of  storm- 
clouds  and  flung  them  between  the  passion  of  man  and 
its  answer. 

In  the  noblest  night  I  ever  saw  at  sea,  the  Monfrisia 
passed  Barber's  Point,  steaming  well  out  beyond  the 
Pearl  River  reefs  and  breakers,  and  into  the  coral  pas 
sage  to  Honolulu.  There  was  a  depth  and  density  of 
black  in  the  south  over  Oahu,  not  of  clouds  but  of  sheer 
night,  that  gave  to  the  full  moon  a  lustrous  whiteness 
that  must  be  paralleled  if  at  all,  among  the  angels. 
Jane  Forbes,  Yuan  and  I,  stood  far  forward  on  the 
promenade.  ...  I  was  better  every  hour,  and  it  was  but 
little  over  four  months  since  that  June  dawn  of  the 
river-firing.  They  had  said  it  would  be  twice  as  long 
before  I  would  be  as  strong  as  I  seemed  this  night,  and 
a  year  before  I  would  be  quite  well. 

"Lights  of  a  city,  seen  from  the  sea, 

And  all  for  a  letter,  waiting  for  me," 

Jane  Forbes  hummed,  regarding  me  with  her  calm  smile. 

"  Thomas  is  true  to  himself,"  said  Yuan.  "  He  is 
the  pure  romantic  principle.  Not  only  the  lights  of 
the  city,  but  the  big  self-lit  stars  shine  for  the  world's 
romance.  .  .  .  Commerce  looks  down,  he  says;  sex  often 
looks  down ;  the  ego  looks  down,  but  Romance  looks 
up  and  beyond  to — Incandescence." 

I  had  no  protest.  Jane  Forbes  smiled  at  me  again. 
I  was  thinking  that  the  warmth  of  affection  from  these 
two  was  good  for  a  man  to  win. 


96  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Morning  brought  me  the  letter  from  Mary  Romany, 
of  which  these  are  sentences: 

...  I  shall  be  in  the  East  when  you  come.  My  father  will  not 
return  to  China,  but  is  leaving  New  York  very  soon  for  South 
America  on  a  new  mining  adventure.  .  .  .  Santell  will  go  with 
him.  The  ship-load  of  mining  machinery  ordered  at  Hong 
Kong  for  Hsi  tin  lin  will  go  to  the  South  American  property, 
via  Barranquilla.  ...  A  letter  in  San  Francisco  will  tell  you 
where  to  find  me.  ...  I  pray  that  you  are  re-building  every 
day.  My  father  joins  me  in  this  hope.  He  means  sometime 
to  speak  to  you  about  that  day — which  even  now,  rends  me 
utterly  to  remember.  It  is  difficult  for  him  quite  to  believe  that 
you  feel  no  hardness  toward  him.  ...  I  shall  not  go  to  South 
America  at  once.  ...  I  am  counting  the  days  until  you  come. 
It  is  hard  for  me  to  write,  but  we  shall  know  what  we  have  to 
do.  We  shall  talk  together  and  understand.  Sometimes  I  think 
a  deep  true  happiness  must  come  from  it  all — when  we  each 
have  done  our  work — but  we  shall  know,  when  we  have  time, 
ample,  uninterrupted  time  together — among  strangers,  away  from 
war's  alarms.  .  .  . 

So  great  a  thing  was  this  to  me  that  I  had  to  cable 
a  sentence  about  it.  I  was  afraid  of  the  good  old  Coptic, 
day  and  night  during  the  last  six  days,  afraid  of  the 
remarkable  limited  train  in  berth  and  diner,  parlor,  and 
buffet;  afraid  of  the  earth,  river,  and  sky,  of  bridges, 
tunnels,  ferries ;  afraid  of  my  own  heart,  lest  it  break 
from  the  tension  of  the  days.  It  seemed  too  great  a 
thing — that  last  long  divided  sentence — that  we  should 
have  time  alone  together  to  wait  until  something  of  all 
was  said.  ...  I  was  afraid  to  think  about  it,  lest  it  carry 
me  out  of  all  proportion,  lest  I  should  become  fixed  in  a 
conception  greater  than  she  had  meant.  And  yet  how 
explicitly  had  she  seemed  to  express  this  passionate  need 
of  mine. 

We  three  separated  in  New  York. 

"  It's  just  for  a  little,"  Yuan  said.     "  Huntoon  will 


Long  Island  97 

be  coming  east  from  St.  Louis,  too.  Our  Mission  lady 
will  be  at  her  home  in  Philadelphia.  And  I  join  Shan 
Wo  Kai,  our  Ambassador  at  Washington — to  wait  for 
you.  We  shall  have  that  talk,  you  know — you  and  I — 
and  that  very  wise  patriot.  I  do  not  want  you  to  make 
haste,  but  when  you  are  ready — a  week,  ten  days,  as  you 
like — join  me  at  Washington.  Wire  the  Embassy  first 
from  here " 

"  I  shall  brood  upon  it,  Yuan — and  come  forth  reek 
ing  with  power." 

"  Shan  Wo  Kai  reeks  normally.  It  will  be  an  expe 
rience.  I  go,  how  do  you  say  it — called  to  the  car 
pet ?" 

The  white  face  of  Jane  Forbes  regarded  me.  She 
would  smile — even  if  I  failed  as  an  apostle  of  romance. 
...  I  was  alone  and  thought  of  the  most  wonderful 
sentence  ever  read — from  the  letter  received  upon  my 
arrival  in  New  York  an  hour  before. 

"  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you  in  Covent,  Long  Island." 


AND  now  I  believe  you  will  begin  to  see  the  real 
Mary  Romany,  and  you  perceive  in  comparison  what  a 
filmy  dimensionless  creature  was  she  of  Oporto,  Hong 
Kong,  and  even  of  Liu  chuan.  .  .  .  The  something  im 
mortal  happened  in  that  visionary  hour  in  which  she 
came  to  the  deck  of  La  Samaritaine.  The  woman  I 
loved  and  into  whose  eyes  I  could  look  clearly  and 
steadily  at  last  .  .  .  her  hair  was  touched  with  white  at 
the  temples. 

Afternoon,  late  October,  brown  fields,  blue  sky,  woods 
7 


98  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of  yellow  and  red;  glimpses  of  the  sea  in  a  tormenting 
wind;  a  little  crashing  train  gritty  with  dust  in  the 
aisles.  .  .  .  The  train-man  called  "  Covent."  The  dark 
ening  woods  huddled  closely  around  a  small  rustic  station, 
except  where  the  road  broke  through,  doubtless  to  the 
Sound.  At  last  I  saw  her. 

If  silence  could  be  indicated  in  degree,  like  humidity 
or  temperature,  this  about  us  now,  before  the  train 
started  up,  was  below  zero.  The  forest  seemed  to  press 
it  down  upon  us ;  the  dusk  was  pregnant  with  silence.  I 
felt  the  need  of  finding  myself  before  speaking.  Mary 
Romany  came  forward,  and  I  went  to  her.  Then  the 
train  moved.  We  waited  until  the  comet's  tail  of  racket 
had  swept  on. 

I  do  not  know  who  spoke  first,  but  I  remember  telling 
her  I  was  quite  well,  and  that  it  was  wonderful  here. 

"The  Inn  is  just  a  little  way  through  the  woods," 
she  said.  "  I  was  not  sure  you  could  walk  so  well,  and 
I  arranged  to  hurry  back  and  get — well,  it's  only  a 
wagon " 

I  laughed  at  her.  She  wore  a  gray  dress  with  a 
narrow  crimson  edging  at  the  throat  and  wrists.  It  was 
soft  and  warm,  and  belonged  with  the  smell  of  pines. 
Her  forehead  reached  my  lips — and  the  white  at  her 
temples.  .  .  . 

"  Is  there  a  piano  there  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  thought  of  that." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  here  before  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  heard  of  it  on  the  Pacific  steamer — a 
man  was  telling  a  woman  about  Covent,  Long  Island — 
the  Bluffs,  the  Shore,  the  beautiful  colored  stones,  the 
quiet  and  the  Pines.  It  seemed  a  good  omen,  so  I  came 
to  see.  You  were  on  the  Pacific  then — half-way  to 


Long  Island  99 

Honolulu.  I  laughed  to  think  I  was  going  from  you 
— almost  to  the  last  comer  of  America  I  made  you  come 
to  find  me.  .  .  .  But  I  like  it  here.  This  is  the  farthest 
east  to  me,  and  Hsi  tin  lin  the  farthest  west — even  if 
the  world  does  know  it  the  other  way  around.  ...  I  began 
the  journey  in  a  palanquin  nearly  five  months  ago.  .  .  . 
Isn't  it  good  to  talk?  I  have  not  talked  for  years " 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  and  breathed  the  piney 
dusk.  Presently  I  asked  why  she  was  laughing,  for  she 
had  stopped  in  the  path.  "  That  long  breath,"  she  said. 
"  That's  a  habit.  It  was  for  you.  Tell  me — can  you 
breathe  deep  and  deep  now  without  it  hurting?" 

"  Without  a  bit  of  hurt,"  said  I.  "  That  came  after 
Honolulu — the  end  of  the  pain." 

At  last  it  was  clear,  the  secret  of  my  rapid  improve 
ment. 

In  the  swift  finished  hands,  in  the  curve  of  the  brow 
around  the  eyes,  and  down  to  the  cheek,  the  woman  had 
come ;  the  rest  was  girlish  still,  the  red  mouth,  the  lithe 
figure  of  lengthened  lines.  I  had  never  looked  at  Mary 
Romany's  mouth  before.  The  dark  hair,  the  wide  dark 
eyes,  and  the  crimson  edging  of  her  dress,  brought  out 
the  red.  I  recalled  her  mother,  and  there  seemed  others 
like  her  in  poise  and  culture,  stretching  back  over  the 
years. 

"  When  I  saw  you  that  morning  on  the  hospital 
ship — you  were  breathing  just  in  your  throat,"  she  was 
saying.  "  For  months  I  have  been  taking  long  breaths 
for  you — like  that  a  moment  ago — and  in  the  night  I 
would  wake  up  and  breathe  deep  for  you.  It  seemed 
so  cruel  that  you  could  not  have  all  the  air  you  needed. 
...  I  want  to  be  very  good  to  you  now.  I'm  so  grate 
ful  for  your  getting  well." 

"  For  a  long  time,  I  had  little  to  do  with  it,  except 


100  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

for  having  the  vitality.  It  was  Yuan.  More  than  all,  it 
was  holding  until  you  came.  That  was  really  the  big 
part  of  it " 

Then  I  told  her  about  that  morning,  as  I  lay  waiting 
for  her  on  the  deck  of  La  Samaritaine;  of  the  lovely 
mystery  she  had  become  to  my  eyes — how  I  seemed  to 
see  her  with  my  soul — that  I  was  closer  to  her,  for  the 
white  in  her  hair  and  the  face  so  pitying. 

"  And  I  wasn't  quite  sure,  you  even  knew  I  was 
there,"  she  answered.  "  Yet  you  told  me  something — 
and  told  me  again " 

"  As  you  bent  over " 


"  You  know  what  you  said  ?  " 
"  Yes,  it  was  the  yellow  rose- 


"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  in  the  Chinese  gardens.  I  mean 
in  the  river  before  Hankow — the  hospital  ship — you  were 
delirious " 

"  That's  what  I  mean — it  was  the  yellow  rose " 

"But  I  didn't  wear— oh." 

"  Mary  Romany " 

"  Come.  They  are  waiting  supper  for  us,"  she  said, 
her  voice  rigidly  repressed.  "  We  have  so  much — much 
to  say  afterward." 

It  was  dark.  My  lips  brushed  the  seam  at  her 
shoulder,  as  we  walked. 

"  I  remember  in  the  rainy  thicket  outside  the  Gate 
— when  we  were  waiting  for  the  Chinese  to  pass — "  she 
said. 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  felt  it — when  I  kissed 
your  dress  that  night  ?  " 

"  I  knew  it." 

...  I  saw  the  lights  of  the  Inn. 

"  It  was  different  when  you  told  me  that  morning 


Long  Island  101 

— on  La  Samaritaine — different  from  the  way  you  told 
me  that  night  in  the  Garden.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can  hardly  bear 
to  think  of  the  Garden — it's  so  close  to  that  place — in 
the  river " 

Her  hand  clutched  mine  as  she  spoke.  I  knew  her 
horror  of  that  morning.  I  meant  to  answer  before  she 
could  speak  of  it  further,  but  she  was  before  me. 

"  It  was  almost  madness,"  she  whispered.  "  It  would 
have  been,  but  you  were  so  dear — and  lived.  It  comes 
over  me — death  couldn't  be  so  dreadful,  but  the  way  of 
it — my  father  standing  in  the  prow  of  the  boat — and 
your  cry  to  him  as  you  looked " 

"Don't  you  see,  it  was  right,  Mary  Romany?"  I 
exclaimed.  "  I  could  never  have  seen  you  as  I  did  that 
morning — that  great  morning  on  the  ship — your  face 
white,  the  white  in  your  hair — your  eyes  full  of  terror 
and  tenderness.  That  was  my  hour.  The  great  woman 
came.  You  throbbed  with  the  life  that  moves  the  world. 
All  was  gone  from  me  but  love.  It  was  more  impor 
tant  than  life  or  death.  Death  couldn't  mean  anything 
important  after  that — don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  I'm  so  thankful  to  you,"  she  whispered.  "  It  won't 
come  back  so  terribly  again.  .  .  ." 

6 

"  Do  you  remember  when  we  sat  opposite  at  a  table 
before  ?  "  Mary  Romany  asked. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ask  if  you  remembered,"  I 
said.  "  Oporto.  .  .  .  We  were  late.  We  had  been  out 
rowing.  Dinner  was  cleared  away  when  we  got  back 
— all  but  one  table.  So  we  were  together.  Your  mother 


102  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

came  around  to  the  window  on  the  piazza  and  asked  if 
we  had  everything  we  wanted." 

"  That  was  the  only  time.  .  .  .  They  were  nice  to 
us,  weren't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  and  we  fell  to  thinking. 

.  .  .  Covent  Inn.  It  was  an  old  Long  Island  home 
stead  enlarged  and  remodeled,  but  not  enough  to  break 
its  heart.  The  season  was  practically  over,  though  the 
best  week  of  weather  of  the  year  was  yet  to  come.  A 
small  case  of  cigars  and  a  desk,  just  large  enough  to 
hold  the  register,  the  pen-rack  and  the  box  of  matches, 
occupied  the  corner  of  the  dining-room  near  the  hall; 
and  from  the  opposite  end,  doors  opened  to  the  kitchen 
on  the  left  and  a  tap-room  on  the  right.  The  rest  of 
the  lower  floor  was  given  over  to  the  stair-case  and  a 
sitting  room  with  a  huge  fire-place.  A  broad  porch 
had  been  added  around  the  dining-room.  I  didn't  really 
see  the  outside  of  the  Inn  until  next  morning. 

The  landlord  puzzled  and  pleased  me.  He  must 
have  had  a  very  good  season.  He  appeared  only  in  the 
most  official  capacity,  such  as  registration  or  collection, 
and  to  play  the  host  in  the  exalted  prerogative  of  lighting 
a  guest  to  his  room — as  I  found  afterward.  He  was 
large,  heavy,  and  highly-colored — such  a  one  as  you 
would  hesitate  to  excite  for  fear  of  apoplexy.  I  shall 
always  remember  him.  He  laughed  (which  invariably 
brought  on  a  fit  of  coughing)  when  asked  if  he  could 
accommodate  me  with  a  room. 

"  You  can  have  the  whole  new  wing  if  you  like," 
he  said.  "  Leave  it  to  me.  Your  bag  has  already  gone 
up." 

I  was  pleased  to  obey.  This  was  after  supper.  Mary 
Romany  was  waiting  to  take  me  to  the  Bluffs. 


Long  Island  103 

From  the  Inn  to  the  Bluffs,  there  was  a  broad 
promenade  with  the  forest  on  either  hand.  Here  we 
met  the  wind,  that  had  been  hushed  during  the  walk 
through  the  wood  from  the  station.  It  seemed  there 
was  something  she  still  must  say  about  Liu  chuan.  I 
realized  that  she  had  suffered  more  than  I.  There  was 
a  touch  of  gray  in  her  heart,  too.  She  said  her  father 
had  suffered.  In  those  long  days  on  the  river,  in  which 
I  was  mostly  unconscious,  she  had  been  unable  to  repress 
her  horror  for  the  hands  that  had  held  the  repeating- 
rifle.  .  .  .  There  was  another  memory.  .  .  .  The  water, 
she  said,  would  not  stay  on  my  brown  face,  because  of 
the  oils  in  the  coloring  that  Yuan  had  put  there.  It 
seemed  to  make  it  all  the  more  terrible  to  her,  as  I 
cried  out  to  her  father.  .  .  .  We  had  reached  the  end 
of  the  land. 

"  It's  Oporto  again — facing  the  North,"  said  I,  as 
we  gazed  into  the  dark  of  the  Sound. 

"  But  rougher — wilder,"  she  answered.  "  Yes,  it  does 
have  that  same  frank  stare  of  the  North,  only  the  Dipper 
has  been  polished.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  strange  for  us  always 
to  be  on  the  cliffs — Oporto,  the  mountain  terraces  of 
Hong  Kong,  the  hills  at  Hsi  tin  lin  ?  " 

"  And  the  gorge  at  Liu  chuan.  .  .  .  You  are  always 
on  the  Heights— 

"  How  different  you  are  from  Hong  Kong." 

"  I  was  stricken.  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  when  you 
were  gone,  I  burned  with  restlessness.  I  had  to  go 
up  the  river.  .  .  .  Hong  Kong— j-and  you  suffered  too? 
The  suddenness,  your  leaving — I  am  glad  it  is  over — all 

but " 

She  laughed  softly.  "  We  have  had  to  learn  so 
many  lessons  alone  and  apart — haven't  we  ?  " 


104  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

In  relating  how  I  came  to  follow  her  so  shortly 
up  the  Yang  tse,  there  were  things  to  say  of  Jane 
Forbes  and  Yuan,  and  of  how  much  had  come  from  the 
voice  we  had  heard,  saying,  "  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon." 

She  broke  the  silence  afterward: 

"  The  world  will  not  let  them  alone — but  we  won't 
think  of  them — to-night.  .  .  .  Do  you  realize,  that  we 
hardly  know  each  other?  I  have  waited  here  almost 
breathlessly.  .  .  .  You  are  good.  You  are  finer  than  I 
thought." 

I  could  not  answer,  but  looked  away  in  the  uncom 
plicated  northern  skies,  over  the  Sound.  We  breathed 
the  wind  so  strongly  pure,  and  listened  to  the  long  sweep 
of  the  waves.  There  was  a  burnt  orange  feather  which 
the  day  had  pinned  upon  the  black  wall  of  the  north 
west.  Faintly  through  the  dark,  we  could  see  far 
below,  the  sweeping  foam,  like  ghostly  fingers  writing 
swiftly  on  the  shore.  Beyond  was  the  soft  deep  night 
and  the  imperial  northern  stars,  coldly  distant  and 
nobly  white.  .  .  .  When  Mary  Romany  turned  to  me 
from  the  ocean  (I  was  standing  a  step  behind),  the 
pallor  which  her  face  reflected  told  me  that  the  moon 
had  risen  over  the  woods  in  the  south. 

"  Nothing  is  left  out  this  night,"  I  whispered,  awed 
by  the  lofty  beauty.  "  Moon,  forest,  cliffs,  ocean  and 
stars  and  wind " 

"  Yes,  the  wind,"  she  answered,  and  I  bent  close 
to  hear,  "  it's  like  spirits  whispering — hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  spirits." 

Her  eyes  were  drawn  a  little  against  the  wind,  her 
lips  slightly  apart,  her  face  so  freshly  cool. 

"  And  what  do  they  say  ? "  I  asked,  though  I  was 


Long  Island  105 

thinking  a  different  thing — that  Mary  Romany  was  the 
spirit  of  all  this  night  beauty. 

"  '  We  have  helped  you — we  have  helped  you ' — that 
is  what  they  say  to  me.  ...  I  am  almost  afraid  to  be 
so  happy,"  she  added  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  I  said. 

"  Tell  me " 

"  That  we  are  not  to  begin  our — happiness  quite  yet ; 
that  this — that  Covent  does  not  mean,  '  together  against 
the  stream  ' — you  and  I " 

Her  words  came  from  the  immensity: 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  doubt — that  I  want  it 
as  much  as  you — '  together  against  the  stream '  " 

We  walked  to  the  steps  leading  down  the  Bluffs, 
and  sat  there  together. 

"  That  was  a  good  deal  for  a  man  to  hear  in  one 
sentence,  Mary  Romany — that  you  want  this  great  thing 
as  much  as  I " 

"  More  than  ever  to-night " 

Never  in  my  life  did  I  summon  the  quality  and 
degree  of  courage  required  in  my  next  question. 

"  And  there  is  nothing  insurmountable — to  keep  us 
apart  always  ?  " 

"  No.    We  are  the  masters " 

"  Then  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?  Whatever  is 
your  thought — is  as  desirable  to  me " 

"And  you  help  me  to  be  strong?" 

"  With  all  my  might." 

She  would  have  caught  my  hand  to  kiss  it,  and  a 
tear  fell  upon  it — before  I  drew  her  to  me  instead.  And 
then  in  my  arms  was  the  spirit  and  embodiment  of  all 
the  beauty  and  wonder  of  that  perfect  night.  I  marvel 


106  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

that  vitality  beats  on  through  the  hush  of  such  a  ful 
filment. 

Afterward,  Mary  Romany  looking  back  toward  the 
light  of  the  Inn — a  pallid  and  shapeless  hulk  against 
the  trees — said  we  were  keeping  "  them  "  up,  because  I 
had  not  been  shown  a  room. 

"  But  think,"  she  added,  "  We  shall  be  up  early  in 
the  morning  and  breakfast  together.  .  .  .  Down  below 
for  a  mile  on  the  shore — the  stones  are  lovelier  than 
anywhere  in  the  world,  and  I  have  a  little  house  to 
show  you.  ...  I  think  I  can  sleep — as  I  have  not 
slept  for  years.  Everything  has  been  so  dear.  I'm  on 
the  border-land  of  laughing  or  crying.  .  .  .  Think  of  it 
— to-morrow " 

"And  to-morrow  night " 

"'They'  will  not  stay  up.  ...  But  I  must  take 
better  care  of  you.  You  are  not  fully  strong  yet." 

...  At  length  we  started  for  the  Inn.  We  might 
have  lost  our  way  and  time  and  space,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  sudden  unmasked  beacon  on  the  veranda — the 
ashes  flicked  from  a  fat  cigar,  and  thick-weather  signals 
— a  fit  of  coughing.  ...  I  felt  the  cling  of  her  fingers. 
Very  orderly  we  passed  under  the  light  together.  .  .  . 
The  proprietor  remarked  urbanely  that  it  was  a  fine 
night,  to  which  I  agreed,  with  un-English  fervor.  And 
up  we  went  together — the  man  with  a  lamp. 

My  whole  nature  was  fired  with  protests  against 
this  thrusting,  dividing  hand  of  the  world — that  sum 
marily  chucked  us  off  to  bed.  True  she  was  not  far 
distant — at  the  end  of  the  hall,  a  room  or  two  away, 
at  most, — but  it  was  a  terrible  fall  from  the  glory  and 
solitude  of  the  night-world,  to  these  walls  and  oil-lamps, 
our  parting  for  the  night,  manhandled. 


Long  Island  107 

I  stood  at  the  door  while  the  proprietor  made  my 
room  ready;  and  as  he  emerged,  turning  attentively  for 
any  last  wish,  I  remembered  a  very  good  cigar  that  I 
had  seen  in  his  case  down-stairs.  Mentioning  this,  his 
reply  was  to  lead  the  way  below.  ...  I  bade  him  good 
night  with  the  case  between  us. 

The  upper  hall  was  deserted.  My  door  had  been 
left  open  so  there  could  be  no  mistake.  I  glanced  to 
the  farther  door  in  which  Mary  Romany  had  vanished; 
and  in  the  next  instant  an  astonishing  fact  abrased  my 
brain.  The  distance  between  her  room  and  mine  was 
that  of  but  one  good-sized  room,  rather  than  two;  and 
what  I  had  supposed  was  a  hall-door  between  was  only 
a  pretext,  designed  to  keep  up  the  slavish  uniformity  of 
a  hotel-hall.  The  wall  was  not  broken;  the  sash  and 
panels  were  but  rudimentary  fronts. 

Consequently  whatever  rilled  in  the  distance  between 
Mary  Romany's  room  and  mine  was  certainly  not  a  guest- 
chamber,  since  there  was  no  hall  opening. 

I  entered  my  room,  locked  it,  and  regarded  the 
other  door  which  I  had  taken  for  a  clothes-closet — in 
the  eminent  direction.  It  was  provided  with  a  bolt, 
which  was  not  shot. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  Mary  Romany's  room 
could  extend  the  entire  distance  to  this  wall.  I  must 
see  what  was  beyond  this  inner  door,  but  before  I  tried 
it,  the  zest  of  the  whole  matter  was  whiffed  away  by 
the  thought  that  the  door  was  of  course  locked  on  the 
other  side.  This  became  so  probable  in  the  next  few 
seconds,  that  it  hardly  seemed  worth  while  to  try;  but 
I  did. 

The  door  opened  easily  with  a  turn  of  the  hand. 
The  intervening  room,  now  used  for  storage,  was  un- 


108  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

mistakably  the  middle  apartment  of  a  family-suite  in 
the  hotel  season.  Just  at  this  instant  Mary  Romany 
opened  her  door  in  my  direction — and  we  faced  each 
other  with  the  world  shut  out. 

Never  were  the^  eyes  of  Mary  Romany  so  wide,  as 
her  arms  lifted  involuntarily,  and  stretched  out  to  me. 
The  glory  and  sweetness  of  her  riveted  me  for  an' 
instant;  and  in  this  interval,  a  spark  seemed  to  cross 
the  divine  darkness  of  her  eyes ;  her  lips  -quivered ;  her 
head  bowed  and  she  turned  away  from  the  open  door. 


SHE  was  standing  by  the  far  window,  her  back  to 
me.  It  had  been  like  dragging  through  an  interminable 
night-mare,  as  I  sped  across  the  store-room — and  to  her, 
at  the  window. 

From  the  holy  night,  and  its  hours  of  heavenly  con 
cord,  back  to  this  world;  from  the  sudden  unspeakable 
happiness  of  the  discovery,  and  her  uplifted  arms — to 
her  turning  away,  and  the  sense  of  the  proprieties  of  a 
hotel-room; — the  test  was  tumultuous.  It  was  not  that 
I  believed  her  afraid,  but  in  the  mere  thought  that  she 
could  be  sorry  this  had  happened,  there  was  a  destructive 
principle. 

Could  she  be  sorry,  when  every  impulse  of  mine 
was  to  be  glad?  In  the  horror  of  this  structural  rift  I 
stood  there  beside  her — not  lifting  my  hand. 

Her  face  turned  slowly  to  the  lamp-light.  I  saw 
her  sparkling  teeth,  her  eyelids  drooped  as  if  in  a  tension 
of  expectancy.  .  .  .  Then  she  beheld  my  face. 

"  Oh "  and  her  arms  lifted  again.  "  Ryerson  Boy 

— your  face  is  like  death " 


Long  Island  109 

I     thought — forgive     me — I     thought     you     were 


sorry 

"  Sorry, — when  I  came  to  Long  Island  to  be  with 
you? — though  one  could  not  have  thought  of  this " 

"  When  you  turned  away " 

"  I  was  startled.  It  was  not  you,  but  I  thought  of 
' — this — this  man,  with  a  touch  of  the  big  city  back 
there  in  his  soul " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  don't  you  see  if  you  were  happy,  there  could 
not  be  that  in  me  to  be  dismayed  ?  " 

"  That's  what  wrenched.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  love  you,  Mary 
Romany " 

We  sat  down  on  the  floor  by  the  window — with  an 
unbribable  guard  holding  the  gates  of  laughter,  so  that 
attenuated  ripples  only  were  allowed  to  pass.  And  the 
lamp-light  on  the  ingrain  carpet  showed  us  rose-baskets, 
big  as  sun-bonnets.  .  .  . 

"  '  They'll '  wonder  that  the  lights  are  still  shining," 
she  whispered. 

"  Put  'em  out,"  said  I. 

"  But  you  must  rest " 

"  This  is  supreme  rest.  .  .  .  I'll  put  the  lights  out 
and  come  back.  We'll  talk  a  little  longer — and  you 
won't  have  to  speak  to  me  again " 

"  Men  who  have  come  so  far,  and  been  so  ill  on 
boats — must  have  their  way." 

And  so  I  blew  out  the  lamps,  then  lifted  the  curtains 
where  we  were — four  windows  facing  the  north  and  the 
east.  The  wind  came  through  and  we  heard  the  sweep 
ing-  of  the  big  waves  as  they  sank  away  from  the  stones ; 


110  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

and  the  moon  crossed  the  floor  from  the  east  window 
to  the  north — but  not  where  Mary  Romany  chose  to  sit. 

"  Don't  you  see  it  would  spoil  everything  if  I  were 
afraid?  We  could  not  be  masters — if  I  were » afraid 
of  you  or  of  myself.  .  .  .  We  could  not  make  this  thing 
beautiful — as  the  dream  is — if  I  were  afraid.  .  .  .  Who 
in  the  wide  world  would  I  be  at  peace  with — if  I  'were 
afraid  of  my  lover?  .  .  .  My  mother  would  say  I  might 
as  well  be  afraid  of  my  baby,  as  of  my  lover." 

I  listened  raptly. 

"  The  world  would  trust  us  out  on  the  cliffs,"  she 
added  after  a  moment.  "  Out  on  the  cliffs,  with  the 
wind  and  the  stars  and  the  moon  and  the  sea — in  the 
very  passion  of  the  earth  and  the  night — and  yet,  if  the 
world  knew  this — poor  silly  old  world — it  could  not  look 
at  us,  at  me,  quite  the  same.  ...  It  cannot  stay  so  silly 
much  longer,  Ryerson  Boy.  It  must  see  soon  that  if 
we  are  not  safe  together — here — we  are  not  there,  nor 
anywhere — and  that  no  offices  of  another — no  pro 
nouncement  of  a  third — can  make  us  safe  together." 

And  thus  I  perceived  truly  the  great-heartedness  of 
Mary  Romany. 

"  And  when,"  I  whispered  at  last,  "  will  you  tell  me 
what  the  dream  is — how  we  can  make  this  thing  more 
beautiful?" 

"  There  is  time.  How  much  we  have  already  said. 
It  is  not  going  to  be  hard.  I'm  so  happy." 

Afterward,  our  sitting  together  in  the  darkness,  re 
minded  me  of  another  night. 

"  The  little  temple  in  the  Chinese  Garden,"  she  said 
at  once,  "  but  ^that's  too  close  to  the  river  for  me  to  be 
happy  thinking  of  it " 

"  I  found  my  yellow  rose  in  that  garden — my  flower 


Long  Island  111 

of  happiness.  Afterward  down  the  river — you  came  to 
the  Crossing  to  meet  me — the  yellow  rose  in  your  breast. 
I  saw  you  that  morning  with  my  soul.  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  ever  see  again  the  deck  of  La  Samaritaine?  That's 
my  road  to  Damascus — my  great  light  fell  there.  .  .  . 
Here  in  the  dark  with  you,  Mary  Romany,  I  can  see 
it  clearly — that  Death  is  only  another  little  Crossing — 
and  not  the  last." 

She  drew  my  head  to  her  breast,  and  I  told  her 
again.  .  .  .  After  that  I  went  to  the  next  room;  and 
both  doors  to  the  store-room  were  left  wide  open. 

8 

THE  breeze  came  in  buoyantly.  I  did  not  expect, 
nor  desire  to  sleep.  Enough  revelations  of  a  woman's 
heart  had  come  to  me,  meanings  infinitely  dear;  the 
late  hours,  indeed,  were  so  thrillingly  pictured  with  tones 
and  gestures,  that  the  thought  of  lying  awake  for  a 
synthesis  of  numberless  adorable  gifts  of  her  heart 
and  mind,  was  pure  entrancement. 

And  then,  I  wished  to  meditate  upon  that  which  she 
meant  to  ask  of  me — that  which  would  fulfill  her  dream. 

Tobacco  had  a  rare  excellence,  and  there  was 
a  sense  of  ease  and  well-being  generally  that  I  had  long 
forgotten.  I  speak  of  it,  because  that  moment  of  grateful 
rest  was  all  that  I  knew,  after  lying  down.  I  awoke  in 
the  broad,  yellow,  bird-songed  day;  arm  trailing  out, 
and  held  lightly  in  the  fork  of  my  fingers,  the  cigar  of 
the  night  before,  still  in  its  virgin  ash.  One  after  another, 
the  rarest  realizations  that  ever  crowded  upon  the  mind 
of  man  after  a  deep  dreamless  sleep  .  .  .  until  I  sprang 
forth  with  a  laugh.  Then  a  "  Good-morning "  trailed 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

in  from  the  other  room,  a  softly  measured  whisper 
that  reached  my  ears,  but  seemingly  would  not  have 
travelled  a  foot  farther.  At  last,  I  called  to  ask  if  she 
were  ready. 

"  Yes,  this  long  time.  Would  you  like  to  come  in 
for  a  moment  ?  " 

.  .  .  She  was  standing  by  the  east  window,  smiling, 
her  hands  held  out;  that  dawn-like  delicacy  upon  her, 
exquisite  like  a  memory  of  orchards;  and,  yet  splendid, 
too,  in  a  deeper  way,  because  of  discoveries  of  mine  in 
what  a  woman  may  be.  And  I  found  in  her  with  the 
morning,  the  art  of  the  great  love-women,  for  she  was 
just  as  animate  and  tender,  as  at  the  moment  of  the 
last  kiss.  There  was  never  a  task  to  do,  nor  any 
demand  of  the  day,  so  important  as  to  obtrude  upon 
her  realization  of  happiness,  nor  to  dim  the  beauty  and 
privilege  of  her  heart's  expression. 

.  .  .  Did  it  come  to  me  from  my  own  vitality?  Was 
some  deep  conception  of  hours  of  darkness  suddenly 
loosed,  at  this  instant  of  crossing  the  room — something 
of  the  morning,  that  I  had  not  seen  in  the  night — some 
thing  that  gave  me  a  new  vision  of  the  woman,  and  a 

new  meaning  to  her  words,  "  We  are  masters "  ? 

Mary  Romany  seemed  the  very  blood  of  my  heart  that 
instant;  and  this  new  mystery  in  her  lips  and  eyes — 
the  red  earth  flame. 

What  did  I  know  of  all  this  when  I  worshipped  Mary 
Romany  as  a  boy  in  Oporto?  Was  the  essence  of  this 
hour  in  that  strange  bewitching  which  widened  my  heart 
and  mind  from  her  mother's  embrace — that  ineffable 
thing  that  called  and  challenged  me  from  her  race? 
Was  that  the  beginning  of  my  realizing  now  a  love- 
lady  past  all  dreams?  .  .  ;  The  woman  at  the  window 


Long  Island  113 

— her  every  glance  was  radiance  to  the  wanderer  who 
had  loved  her  so  long  from  afar. 

I  wonder  if  men  whose  lives  are  less  lonely  than 
mine  had  been,  can  ever  know  this  instantaneous  and 
full-length  revelation  of  the  force  of  the  sun  and  the 
yielding  of  the  earth?  ...  A  hundred  sweet  tokens  of 
her  affection  had  come  to  me  in  the  evening,  but  the 
starry  depth  of  eye,  the  strange  red  of  the  parted  lips, 
the  swift  lifting  of  the  breast,  these  and  all  the  mighty 
conjectures  of  which  is  here  but  a  figment — these,  came 
in  the  time  that  it  takes  an  eager  man  to  cross  a  room. 
And  as  they  had  come  to  me,  so  had  they  come  to  her. 
We  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence.  .  .  .  Do  you  think, 
as  I  did  for  an  instant,  that  there  would  be  no  words 
of  this  ?  Mary  Romany  was  not  one  to  answer  a  silence 
between  us,  with  a  silence. 

"  One  would  think,"  she  said,  still  looking  down, 
"  that  there  would  be  a  river  or  a  mountain,  at  least  a 
wall,  to  cross  into  this  country.  But  it  isn't  so.  It's 
just  a  step  like  the  others — and  you  cannot  tell  which 
step.  .  .  .  We  are  like  a  boy  and  girl  finding  ourselves 
in  the  land  of  strange  Southern  Gods — where  the  earth 
is  redder  and  redder — and  we  are  not  old  enough  to 
stay." 

"  Last  night,  even  last  night,"  I  told  her  unsteadily, 
"  I  did  not  know  how  beautiful  you  were." 

We  had  turned  from  an  east  window  to  another  that 
overlooked  the  Sound. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking — just  before  you 
crossed  the  room?" 

"  Tell  me." 

"  That  I  should  like  to  get  your  breakfast,  every  bit 

of  it — even  to  making  the  bread " 

8 


114  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  But  you  are  to  play  for  me — that  is  better " 

"  It  is  not  better,"  she  said,  "  not  to  a  woman.  And 
that  will  come.  .  .  .  You  think  there  is  silence  here,  and 
solitude.  This  is  but  the  edge  of  that  silence  and  solitude 
I  desire, — when  our  day  comes.  I  think  I  am  very 
strange  and  terrible,  but  I  want  to  meet  you  in  some 
land  where  the  giants  have  left — some  vast  and  mighty 
wilderness — that  I  can  make  glad  for  you." 

It  was  then  the  inspiration  came  to  me  that  I  should 
go  away ;  not  that  I  could  ever  be  great  enough  to  mate 
with  this  woman ;  but  that  I  should  go  away  for  a  month 
— for  a  year — and  meditate  upon  her  in  some  still 
remote  place,  that  my  coming  again  might  be  strengthened 
and  purified. 

"And  won't  you  tell  me  what  you  are  thinking?" 
she  whispered. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  very  new  and  uncommon  for  me.  I'd 
like  to  think  of  it  a  little  more — before  I  tell  you " 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

We  met  for  breakfast. 


9 

THERE  could  be  no  sweeter  task  than  to  make  in 
dividual  each  day  of  my  stay  in  Covent — each  episode, 
each  moment  almost.  There  is  not  a  morning  nor 
evening,  a  breakfast,  dinner,  walk  nor  talk,  that  is  not 
colored  with  a  peculiar  attraction  of  its  own  for  my  mind. 
Mary  Romany  was  a  new  creature  with  each  new  day. 
To  be  with  her  was  a  continual  passing  beyond.  I  some 
times  think  I  could  ask  no  better  country  than  her  com 
panionship — but  there  is  peril  in  that  degree  of  happi 
ness — at  least  one's  inner  life  warns  that  there  is.  The 


Long  Island  115 

moments  crowd  back  now,  tempting  the  chronicler,  but  I 
am  dismayed  by  thought  of  the  matters  still  to  put  down. 
There  is  an  anxiety  to  be  on,  in  the  midst  of  the  moun 
tains  and  movements  that  stood  between  us  and  fulfill 
ment  ;  and  as  the  Covent  days  drew  on,  the  same  anxiety 
came  to  us,  the  sense  that  shortening  now  prolonged  the 
ultimate  blessedness. 

And  yet  with  all  this  sizable  paragraph,  I  can  skip 
only  that  first  breakfast;  for  directly  afterward  Mary 
Romany  announced  that  we  must  be  about  the  day's 
business.  .  .  .  We  walked  along  the  Sound  path  to  the 
east.  After  ten  minutes  I  saw  a  little  weather-beaten 
house,  with  the  woods  behind  and  beyond,  and  just  a 
stone's  throw  from  the  edge  of  the  Bluffs.  Mary  stopped 
and  produced  a  key. 

"  They  say  an  old  scientist,  named  Bee,  used  to  come 
here  to  study  and  write,"  she  explained.  "  When  I 
decided  on  Covent,  I  knew  that  my  lord  would  ask  a 
certain  question  as  soon  as  he  arrived.  And  so  I  had 
to  arrange " 

She  went  before  me  into  the  single  large  room,  and 
stood  laughing  as  I  turned  from  the  diminutive  hall  and 
beheld  a  grand  piano.  "  Mine,"  she  declared.  "  It  has 
been  in  storage  for  years  in  New  York.  Father  got  it 
for  me  when  we  lived  there  for  several  months — a  third 
of  the  way  back  to  Oporto.  .  .  .  There  wasn't  a  good 
piano  in  Covent,  and  so  I  took  the  house  and  had  this 
brought.  You  see  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  but  prepare 
for  your  coming.  .  .  .  The  place  is  for  sale  with  some 
land  here  and  in  the  woods.  I  think  I  shall  take  it — 
if  you  like  me  here." 

Of  course,  I  was  thinking  of  the  music-room,  if  you 
recall  how  it  came  first.  I  was  crossing  the  river  from 


116  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Liu  chuan,  and  looking  down  at  the  water.  It  was  be 
fore  I  had  taken  the  journey  to  Hsi  tin  lin — the  day 
Yuan  showed  me  the  yellow  rose — and  the  sentence  that 
seem  to  come  from  her,  as  I  watched  the  swift  water 
— "  Sometime  we  shall  work  together  here."  These 
windows  did  not  reach  from  floor  to  ceiling  as  in  that 
imaged  room;  the  walls  were  not  hung  with  soft  misty 
white,  nor  were  the  woods  of  the  house  softly  shining 
and  dark.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  at  once  that  the  walls 
might  be  hung  as  I  had  seen  them  first,  and  that  the 
woods  were  rich  from  age,  and  needed  only  finish  for 
that  subdued  shining.  This  occurred  after  I  had  realized 
the  two  main  features :  that  the  windows  were  shaded  by 
great  whispering  trees,  and  through  their  branches  could 
be  seen  the  sea.  Desire  of  the  place  began  to  mount. 
It  had  the  beauty  of  age — the  timbers  were  thick  as 
those  of  a  deep-sea  ship.  For  fifty  years  it  had  stood 
in  the  teeth  of  the  wrathful  north.  ...  I  do  not  recall 
what  I  said,  except: 

".  .  .  What  a  place  for  us  to  work  together " 

She  whirled  from  the  bench.  "  What  made  you  say 
that?" 

I  told  her  how  the  music-room  had  come  to  me — 
and  many  times  afterward,  and  the  thoughts  of  work 
ing  with  her.  "Always  I  have  felt,  you  know,"  I 
added,  "  that  I  haven't  done  my  work  properly." 

She  was  pale.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  could  know 
about  the  music-room " 

"  I  have  always  said,  '  When  I  know  Mary  Romany 
well,  I  shall  do  my  work.'  It's  all  been  preparing " 

"  Every  minute  together — there  is  less  for  me  to  say. 
.  .  .  But  I — have  you  not  thought  of  my  self — what 


Long  Island  117 

I  have  needed  to  prepare?  .  .  .  Oh,  tell  me,  what  do  you 
want  most  for  the  coming  years  ?  " 

"  Always  to  be  finer  than  you  thought " 

She  turned  back  to  the  keys.  I  stood  waiting  for 
her  to  play,  but  she  arose  again,  her  eyelids  wet,  and 
came  to  me,  taking  both  hands.  With  a  sweetness  that 
thrills  me  now  to  write,  she  said: 

"That  is  all  there  is — that  is  the  secret.  That  is 
what  I  want  to  be  to  you  always,  always — finer  than 
you  thought.  .  .  .  Why,  dear  love,  that  is  the  way. 
Happiness  is  so  close  to  that  road — that  you  can  hear 
wings." 

.  .  .  And  then  she  played  the  splendid  Scherzo  in  B 
Flat  Minor  of  Chopin's — a  rollicking  of  the  children  of 
supermen,  and  one  part  repeated,  was  beguilingly  sweet, 
as  if  they  were  remembering  the  lovely  sadness  of 
Earth.  .  .  . 

"  Four  years  ago  in  Brussels,  waiting  for  Father," 
Mary  Romany  was  saying,  "  I  found  a  great  teacher 
who  was  a  friend  and  pupil  of  the  Little  Master  who 
wrote  this  one  I  am  to  play  now.  ...  Of  course,  I  have 
been  away  from  it  for  a  long  time — away  from  the 
piano,  as  you  know.  But  here  in  Covent  before  you 
came  I  loved  to  think  in  the  long  forenoons  of  getting 
it  ready  for  you — though  I  need  months." 

And  she  played  the  Grieg  Concerto — a  half-hour  of 
rich  pictures.  Always  I  love  the  slow  movements  best 
in  the  first  hearing.  The  Grieg  Adagio  was  almost  as 
beautiful  to  me  as  the  Larghetto  of  Chopin's — a  more 
subdued  and  rippling  loveliness,  though  not  so  hot  from 
the  breast  of  man.  Indeed,  it  had  come  from  a  far 
cooler  breast ;  and  the  fierceness  of  the  marcato,  its 
high  pitch  of  terror,  like  tumbril-teams  lashed  to  the 


118  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

guillotine,  was  the  fierceness  of  a  watcher.  Chopin 
would  have  been  in  the  vehicle,  not  in  the  crowd.  ...  I 
was  lifted  with  thoughts  and  pictures — of  the  little  girl 
around  the  world,  waiting  for  her  father  and  studying 
with  different  masters — to  the  end  of  playing  my  soul 
awake  here  by  the  sea.  ...  I  told  of  the  pictures  I  saw 
when  Yuan  Kang  Su  talked — of  the  pictures  when  she 
played ;  the  great  moments  of  my  days,  so  often  identified 
with  music, — of  wonderful  talks  with  my  father,  as  we 
listened  to  the  boatmen  on  the  Volga,  and  lovers  on  the 
Rhine  and  Danube — how  certain  tones  and  certain  odors 
swung  wide  open  the  darker  galleries. 

"  You're  a  dreamer,  Ryerson  Boy,"  she  said,  happily. 
"  A  dreamer  of  dreams.  .  .  .  Now  I  can  understand 
your  Tibet  and  our  Hong  Kong  better " 

"  But  I  shall  do  my  work,"  I  repeated  trenchantly. 

"  Of  course,"  she  laughed.  "  I  think  I  have  fright 
ened  you  about  that.  It  was — it  was " 

I  watched  rapturously  while  she  groped  for  the  word. 

"  An  impertinence,"  she  finished. 

"  Oh,  that  can't  be  the  right  one 

"  That  is  just  the  word  I  was  hunting  for — because 
I  felt  you  needed  managing  then — in  Hong  Kong " 

"  But  I  did — I  do.  I  never  saw  it  so  clearly — as 
this  morning.  It  is  less  that  you  want  things  of  me,  than 
that  I  need  and  must  have  at  any  cost — better  things 
to  give  you " 

"  But  don't  you  see, — now  that  you  bring  these 
realizations  of  yours  to  me — there  is  no  need  of  my 
managing?" 

Covent  was  not  properly  a  village.  At  least,  I  never 
found  any  centre  to  it,  unless  it  was  the  shop  of  a 
delicate  woman  on  the  way  from  the  Inn  to  the  Train 


Long  Island  119 

where  letters  could  be  mailed  and  had,  if  there  were 
any,  also  a  rigid  line  of  necessities  to  life — sugar,  tea, 
thread,  and  chewing  tobacco.  Covent  seemed  to  be  in 
suspense  for  New  York  to  come  out  and  buy.  There 
were  farms  back  from  the  Bluffs.  On  one  of  these  we 
found  the  man  who  owned  the  Sound  Frontage  contain 
ing  the  Bee  place.  (What  a  hive  of  memories  to  me  in 
the  year  that  followed.)  ...  I  did  not  disturb  Mary 
Romany's  negotiations,  though  I  was  granted  permission 
to  purchase  a  dozen  acres  of  woodland  beyond.  I'm 
sure  the  farmer-folk  considered  me  a  bit  balmy,  until  a 
certified  check  came  back  from  New  York  on  the  second 
day  following.  There  was  small  chance  of  that  piano- 
grand  escaping.  .  .  . 

Though  there  was  no  village  for  the  living,  I  recall 
the  sorry  little  settlement  of  graves  on  the  Bluffs  far 
beyond  the  Inn.  The  grass  about  was  dry  and  drained, 
like  the  farmer's  wives  in  the  back  country — from  the 
terrible  energies  of  plain  living.  The  winds  licked  up  the 
moisture  and  blew  away  the  soil  itself  from  the  roots ; 
and  there  was  too  much  salt  in  the  air  for  grasses.  The 
few  stones  were  low  and  scoured  by  the  rain  and  the 
gales.  .  .  .  Knowing  Mary  Romany  had  altered  my  pre 
vious  thoughts  of  death  I  tried  to  express  to  her  the 
change : 

"  I  used  to  think  the  body  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  love  one  might  hold  for  one  who  had  died.  I  used 
to  scorn  all  ceremony,  and  all  those  who  had  a  cemetery 
sentiment.  Rigidly  I  enforced  this  when  my  father  died. 
I  gave  no  thought  to  the  body  that  had  travelled  so  far 
— leading  a  little  boy.  '  The  grave,'  I  would  say,  '  what 
have  I  to  do  with  graves?  My  father  is  not  there.' 


120  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

And  when  I  would  see  a  woman  in  black  among  the 
mounds " 

"  There  is  always  a  woman  in  black  among  the 
mounds,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  I  would  think  it  morbid.  And  the 
scent  of  certain  flowers  I  came  to  hate,  because  they 
brought  back  the  bereft  flesh  in  a  state  of  waiting. 
*  You  should  take  it  away/  I  thought.  '  Those  strangers 
who  make  it  their  business  should  take  it  away  quickly. 
They  alone,  and  not  the  lovers,  have  to  do  with  the 
house  of  the  dead.  .  .  .  And  yet,  if  you  died,  I  should 
not  be  the  pitiless  modern  that  I  thought.  I  could  lift 
the  veil  of  the  woman  in  black  and  we  should  understand 
— if  you  were  near " 

"  Women  who  love  are  like  that,"  she  answered.  "  It 
is  a  woman's  way  to  love  the  body,  too.  It  must  be 
because  she  brings  the  body  into  the  world.  It's  her  art 
like  another's  painting  or  statue — but  there  is  more  to 
one  whom  one  loves — whom  one  has  kissed " 

"And  only  one  who  loves  can  understand " 

"  Yes."  .  .  .  She  reached  for  my  right  hand,  from 
which  the  pistol  had  been  released  by  her  father's  bullet, 
and  regarded  the  scar.  Some  mysterious  feminine 
formality  was  being  enacted.  She  asked  about  the  other 
wounds.  I  crossed  my  arms  touching  either  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  but  there  is  one  more — the — terrible  one " 

I  changed  the  point  a  little.  It  was  near  the  heart, 
and  she  was  suffering.  But  she  was  not  to  be  misled. 
.  .  .  She  touched  her  fingers  to  her  lips  and  then  to  my 
hand  and  the  three  points  on  my  coat.  ...  It  was  as  if 
something  I  had  said  had  made  this  possible.  .  .  .  The 
west  and  the  north-west  formed  a  heavenly  chamber. 
That  perfect  day  was  dying  like  a  God. 


Long  Island 


10 

WE  were  in  the  Other  Room,  the  evening  of  the 
fourth  day. 

".  .  .  Nothing  so  great  has  ever  come  to  me,  Ryerson 
Boy.  It  won't  be  hard  for  you.  Why,  you've  seen  it 
without  any  words  from  me.  I  should  have  known.  I 
did  not  trust  the  mysterious  forces  which  drew  us  to 
gether.  But  it  is  hard  for  me  -  " 

It  seemed  we  were  in  mid-channel,  'floating  the  while, 
planning  strongly  the  best  way  to  make  the  landing  on 
the  opposite  shore,  and  holding  well  in  mind  the  rigors 
and  the  perils  of  the  life  passage  so  far.  .  .  .  Indian 
Summer  had  come  to  make  our  tryst  in  Covent  flawless. 
No  finer,  deeper,  nor  fuller  days  were  ever  given  a 
man.  I  had  not  known  that  days  could  be  so  dear. 

We  sat  by  the  east  window,  so  we  could  see  the 
moon  rise  to  the  southward,  and  opposite  in  the  great 
cool  dark  beyond  the  Sound,  the  far-apart  sentinels 
shone  on  the  frontier  of  the  universe.  ..."  But  it  is 
hard  for  me  -  "  Those  words  shut  me  in  a  place 
where  dead  men  lay.  I  knew  her  courage;  mine  was 
inspiration  from  her.  I  held  to  the  hands  that  played 
for  me  so  marvellously  through  the  long  forenoons. 

"  I'm  glad  you  knew  my  mother,"  Mary  Romany 
went  on.  "  It  makes  it  easier  —  since  you  were  drawn 
to  her.  She  always  told  me  what  a  wonderful  time 
it  was  for  a  girl,  when  her  heart  turned  to  its  lover. 
It  wasn't  long  after  the  Oporto  days,  when  she  began 
to  talk  of  these  things  —  as  if  she  knew  there  would 
not  be  many  days.  Young  women  do  not  take  seriously 
enough  this  period  of  learning  who  is  to  be  their  dearest 
among  men.  My  mother  made  me  see  this.  She  said 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

that  you  were  impetuous  and  not  easily  understood, 
but  that  the  things  which  make  manhood  noble  and 
beautiful  were  in  you;  that  you  had  a  fine  father  and 
must  have  had  a  sweet  mother.  She  seemed  to  know 
that  we  would  meet  again.  We  always  spoke  of  you 
as  the  '  Ryerson  Boy.' 

"  *  And  when  you  see  him  you  will  know.  If  there 
is  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  changes  all  the  thoughts  of 
your  girlhood,  that  makes  you  feel  lonely  and  lost — 
oh,  be  very  sure  to  pass  on  quickly.  Boys  go  strange 
ways  to  manhood.  Do  not  trust  your  eyes,  but  the 
feeling  in  your  heart.  If  he  is  a  stranger  there — he 
must  remain  one.'  This  is  what  my  mother  said." 

"  Everything  about  you  belongs  to  a  better  country," 
I  told  her.  "  And  you  found  something  in  my  eyes  in 
Hong  Kong  that  made  you  feel  lonely  and  lost?  " 

"  I  wasn't  sure.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  I  see  how 
we  suffered  that  night.  I  knew  I  must  go  away — and 
yet,  I  could  not  let  you  go  for  always.  You  know  I  could 
not — I  kissed  you  that  last  minute.  .  .  .  That  look  in 
your  eyes — -no,  it  was  not  fatal.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  your  being  handsome  or  not — just  a  little  intimate 
matter  that  my  mother  had  made  me  know — an  unheard 
of  thing  that  belongs  to  a  woman  who  has  chosen  to 
take  a  long  and  lonely  road  to  her  house  of  happiness 
— rather  than " 

"  Yes " 

"  Oh,  Ryerson  Boy — rather  than  the  tempting  short 
cut  of  saying,  '  I  will  marry  you  to-night.'  .  .  . 

"  My  mother  made  me  see — that  men  who  came  to 
win  a  girl's  heart,  are  different  men  when  they  have 
won  it.  In  this,  all  sorrow  lies.  Men  and  women,  too, 
rise  to  great  occasions  in  the  first  days  of  loving,  and 


Long  Island  123 

having  been  joined  together — fall  back  upon  themselves. 
I  was  taught  to  believe,  and  to  live  with  the  thought, 
that  there  must  be  no  relaxation  in  loving  a  husband; 
that  the  deadly  sin  is  ever  to  turn  from  romance  to 
routine.  But  it  is  a  game  of  two — and  I  had  to  be  sure 
that  my  lover  would  not  turn.  ...  So  you  know  what 
it  meant  to  me — when  you  said  what  you  wanted  most 
for  the  future — always  to  be  finer  than  I  thought.  .  .  . 

"  Just  see  what  it  means,"  she  went  on,  " — each  day 
a  lifting  endeavor,  each  thought  adjusted  to  better  light, 
each  motive  a  giving  instead  of  a  getting,  a  constant 
repression  and  casting  back  of  the  unworthy — and  the 
worthy  rushing  in  to  take  its  place.  All  this — not  for 
the  good  of  one's  soul — not  for  that — but  for  the  loved 
one.  This  is  what  my  mother  said.  .  .  .  And  you  see, 
the  old  and  unworthy  dies  from  not  being  expressed — 
and  only  the  good  lives  and  prospers.  That  is  love's 
way — a  constant  replenishing  of  body  and  mind  and 
soul — no  relaxation,  no  taking  for  granted  the  easy 
nature  of  the  other, — never,  never  making  a  common 
every-day  matter  of  your  life-gift  to  each  other." 

And  now  I  told  her  what  had  come  to  me  in  this 
room  the  first  morning: 

"  You  know  how  an  idea  sometimes  comes — quietly 
but  with  a  strength  that  seems  to  have  an  army  behind 
it.  ...  My  heart  ached  from  holding  you  that  first 
morning — you  were  so  great  to  me.  I  did  not  seem 
strong  enough  in  manhood.  I  felt  that  I  must  go 
away  for  a  time,  for  a  year.  I  had  seen  you,  now  must 
realize  you — all  that  you  mean  and  are — I  must  prepare 
a  place  for  you  in  my  life." 

Mary  Romany  bent  forward,  the  pallor  of  the  moon 
lit  south  upon  her  face,  shining  in  her  eyes :  "  I  could 


124  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

cry  out  from  happiness,  Ryerson  Boy.  To  think  that 
I  did  not  have  to  tell  you — that  is  the  very  thing.  .  .  . 
The  year  is  for  me — quite  as  much  as  for  you.  I  have 
seen  you.  I  must  realize  you.  But  I  did  not  think  it 
could  be  so  hard.  It  is  almost  as  if  there  were  no  need 
of  your  going  away — since  you  have  realized  it — with 
no  words  from  me.  I'm  afraid, — you'll  have  to  be 
strong  for  me.  .  .  .  And  I  have  carried  this  thing  in 
mind  for  years.  You  said  you  would  be  strong  for  me 
— with  all  your  might " 

All  about  me  was  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  her 
emotions,  with  such  grace  and  power  had  she  woven 
her  spirit  about  my  heart. 

"  We  must  have  the  Year,  Beloved,"  I  whispered. 
"All  these  fluent  conceptions  you  have  given  me,  must 
harden  into  truth  and  character.  The  dream  to  me  is  of 
what  I  shall  bring  back  to  you.  Thinking  of  you  and 
the  great  good  that  has  come  to  me,  thinking  of  you 
and  these  hours,  in  my  nights  and  days,  must  bring 
to  my  eyes  that  look  which  you  were  not  sure  of  in 
Hong  Kong.  It  will  be  there,  when  I  come  back.  You 
will  not  feel  lost  nor  lonely."  .  .  . 

She  broke  the  silence.  "  I  wonder  if  my  mother 
could  ask  for  you  to  go  away — if  she  knew  how  dear 
you  were  ?  " 

"  This  good  is  not  mine  yet.  It  is  your  sustaining. 
You  are  wings,  since  I  have  been  here.  I  must  win 
your  high  place  alone.  I  must  be — of  myself — what 
you  have  inspired  me  to  be  here.  That  is  the  meaning 
of  the  Year.  She  was  very  wise,  your  mother." 

"  You  do  not  know  how  7  have  expanded  in  this 
happiness.  The  power  has  come  to  us,  and  we  must 
make  it  a  home  in  our  hearts.  ,  But  it  seems  so 


Long  Island  125 

terrible  to  send  you  away — you  so  good — you  that  have 
suffered  so  much  for  me.  Even  my  mother  would  be 
afraid,  I  think.  .  .  .  We  are  so  close,  so  real,  to-night. 
Truth  is  so  near  and  blessed  to-night.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear 
heart,  I  am  letting  you  be  strong  for  me.  .  .  .  And  yet 
it  is  so  sweet — to  feel  your  strength " 

The  moon  was  much  higher.  Its  pallor  had  spread 
over  the  Sound,  and  hung  like  a  mist  before  the  northern 
stars. 

"  To  think  of  the  little  ones,"  she  was  whispering, 
"  the  little  boys  and  girls,  with  their  things  to  say ; 
every  sentence,  art's  own  true  voice;  and  their  great 
business  to  do  every  day.  Isn't  it  ecstasy — the  little 
heads  and  their  marvellous  unfoldings — and  to  think  that 
in  every  thought — even  through  our  Year — we  have  done 
our  utmost  best,  our  utmost  united  inspiration — in  dream 
ing,  loving,  praying,  toiling,  bearing — our  utmost  best 
for  them — all  our  lives — until  we  are  as  children  beside 
them." 

The  night  was  a  pilgrimage  to  Holy  Land  for  me.  I 
had  no  words,  but  walked  exalted  in  her  white  passion. 

"  Think — if  they  were  about  us  here  now — the  little 
heads — how  they  would  teach  us  to  play  and  sing.  We 
would  listen  to  the  forest  and  the  ocean — and  hear  the 
spirits  of  the  good  in  all  the  great  harmony — and  learn 
the  corn  and  the  bees  together,  and  flowers  and  stars. 
.  .  .  And  oh,  how  proud,  when  they  were  older  (you 
do  not  know  this  of  a  woman,  I  am  sure),  how  proud 
to  show  them  how  I  am  loved  by  their  father.  That 
is  a  woman's  supremacy.  .  .  .  And  putting  them  to  bed — 
hearing  the  sleepy  words  from  little  lips  that  have  come 
so  far  to  taste  what  the  world  is  like ;  and  to  hear 


126  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

their  dreams,  and  to  be  waked  by  them — when  the 
morning  is  a  baby,  too — to  watch  them  find  you.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Ryerson  Boy,  this  is  the  greatness  of  Earth  to 
me.  .  .  .  This  seems  what  God  must  have  meant.  And 
our  Year  is  preparation  for  this  sacrament.  .  .  .  And 
you  have  understanding.  How  strong — how  dear  you 
are.  I  will  love  you  safely  home." 

11 

So  many  brightenings  of  the  inner  dimension  of 
man  Mary  Romany  brought  to  me.  Every  turn  of  her 
presence  was  a  different  melody — strange  hushed  little 
melodies  in  a  minor  key,  that  started  me  singing  within. 
She  made  me  see  the  world  from  new  and  wonderful 
angles,  and  in  dream-colored  light.  ...  I  think  there 
must  be  vast  ranges  of  virgin  understanding  in  every 
man's  mind,  that  are  illumined  best  in  flashes  of  a 
woman's  love — as  the  mountains  of  Tropicania  are  lit 
at  times  by  clicking  snaky  flashes  of  electric  fire.  Routine 
and  mingling  with  men  are  matters  of  major  key.  When 
a  man  makes  up  his  life  of  such,  he  remains  a  boy, 
except  that  part  of  him  which  is  animal;  and  that 
grows  old.  But  the  minors  of  life — certain  haunting 
melodies,  certain  inexplicable  perfumes,  voices  of  the 
night,  twilights,  the  hungers  that  have  naught  to  do 
with  frying-pans,  and  the  voice,  the  look,  the  kiss  of  a 
loved  woman — these  are  realities.  ...  I  needed  the 
Year — to  be  alone,  to  make  ready — to  mature  the  con 
ception  of  happiness. 

Can  you  imagine,  even  in  the  midst  of  that  perfect 
season  at  Covent,  that  a  part  of  my  nature  was  eager 
to  begin  the  Year? — just  as  there  was  a  part  that  would 


Long  Island  127 

startle  me  at  intervals  through  the  long  hours  of  light, 
with  the  thought  of  the  end  of  the  day,  and  the  good 
night  in  the  Other  Room.  I  was  elate,  brimming — and 
so  good  did  the  world  seem,  and  the  God  of  the  world, 
that  it  was  effort  to  recall  death  and  fire  and  flood  and 
the  world's  misery.  Of  course  I  realized  then  that  I 
must  go  out  and  help,  must  earn  the  right  to  come  back 
to  Mary  Romany.  .  .  . 

"  Sometimes  I  wish  I  were  poor — even  that  we  were 
poor,"  I  thought  aloud,  as  we  walked  along  the  Bluffs, 
the  day  before  I  left  for  Washington  to  help  Yuan.  So 
often,  had  I  seen  full  comprehension  in  her  eyes,  before 
I  was  half  through  picturing  an  idea,  that  I  felt  only 
the  need  of  thinking  clearly  and  offering  fragments 
from  time  to  time.  "  What  I  mean  is — there  would  be 
joy  in  bringing  the  antelope  and  fire- wood  to  your 
tepee " 

And  then  I  fell  to  thinking  what  Yuan  had  said 
about  a  man's  work,  and  the  necessity  of  making  a 
woman  see  that  the  world  respected  his  prowess. 

"  Money  seems  to  have  so  little  to  do  with  us,"  she 
said.  ..."  Why,  if  we  were  without,  we  could  go 
forth  together  and  get  fire-wood  and  antelope.  We're 
well  and  strong — that's  too  simple." 

"  Yet  it's  like  a  rope  around  the  throat  of  our 
kind,"  said  I,  "  and  men  hang  upon  it — until  they  are 
dead." 

.  .  .  There  was  a  certain  magic  in  her  sentence  of 
going  out  together.  It  had  to  do  with  her  ideal  of  a 
man's  mate — an  ideal  of  the  elder  world,  the  woman  of 
strength  and  knowledge  in  house  and  land,  the  woman 
of  valor,  with  olive  branches  about  her — whose  price  is 
above  rubies.  Her  sentence  had  a  mystic  meaning  for 


128  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

me — a  boy  and  girl  in  faery  light  setting  out  hand  in 
hand.  .  .  .  We  stood  upon  the  rocky  shore  and  it  was 
high  noon,  the  forest  at  our  right,  and  that  cool  green 
sea,  always  sounding.  I  remember,  we  had  left  the 
door  of  the  little  house  open.  I  told  her  I  should  spend 
the  year  in  South  America — with  her  father  if  he 
would  permit.  This  had  come  to  me  like  an  inspiration, 
and  the  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  pivotal  it 
appeared. 

"  It  is  splendid  of  you  to  go  to  him,"  she  said 
strangely,  "  but  South  America  means  a  man's  dream 
of  rivers  of  gold — to  me.  Oh,  yes,  I  am  grateful " 

"  At  first  I  thought  I  wanted  the  great  mountains, 
and  then  it  drew  closer  and  closer  to  me  that  it  was  your 
father  I  needed — not  the  Himmalayas.  After  that  I 
realized  that  he  was  in  the  heart  of  the  Andes." 

"  My  mother  and  I  learned  what  the  dream  of  rivers 
of  gold  will  do  to  one  man's  mind,"  she  added  slowly. 
"  But  it  is  like  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  think  of  you  both 
there.  And  my  father  will  be  glad.  Yes,  even  if  the 
rivers  of  gold  are  there — you  will  not  forget  the  greater 
thing.  .  .  .  Ryerson  Boy,  if  I  asked  you — would  you  stay 
now  and  not  go  to  South  America ?" 

"  I  think — if  we  do  this  hard  thing  together,  Mary 
Romany,  we'll  breathe  deeper  the  breath  of  life  in  the 
years  ahead.  I  am  one  who  has  come  into  a  great 
inheritance — many  mansions  and  lands,  so  that  I  am 
lost  in  the  midst  of  them.  I  must  realize  and  grow 
accustomed  to  my  great  fortune " 

I  was  talking  as  if  for  air.  I  held  blindly  to  the 
single  idea  that  I  must  not  waver,  must  not  yield.  I 
dared  not  look  at  her,  but  felt  her  nearer. 


Long  Island  129 

"  Forgive  me.  I  shall  never  say  that  again.  .  .  . 
You  are  my  lover,  terrible  and  unalterable." 

Covent  was  famed  for  its  sparkling  beaches.  Often 
as  we  gathered  the  colored  stones,  I  had  seen  her  turn 
to  the  sea  with  that  lulled  far  look  which  comes  from 
steady  wind  in  the  eyes.  She  seemed  to  be  listening 
for  the  voices  again — the  spirits  of  that  first  night.  .  .  . 
Once  she  told  me  of  a  queer  dream:  Our  mothers  and 
my  father  were*  together.  She  mused  a  moment  after 
making  this  dream  clear  to  me,  and  then  repeated  her 
thankfulness  in  that  I  was  going  to  South  America.  I 
understood. 

"  Did  they  say  anything — that  Trinity  in  the  dream  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Yes,  but  I  cannot  remember.  It's  the  same  with 
the  other  voices.  You  don't  know  if  they  speak,  or  if 
they  just  think  their  messages  with  your  mind.  You 
understand  at  the  time " 

"  Please  tell  me  more  about  the  Other  Voices." 

"  They  come  to  a  woman  who  is  radiantly  happy,, 
Such  a  woman  is  panoplied  with  them — and  they  are 
the  elect.  .  .  .  They  know  I  am  loved.  They  did  not 
draw  near  until  you  came.  They  would  not  approach, 
if  I  were  alone.  Sometimes  they  come  in  the  night — 
but  I  think  it  is  because  our  doors  are  open.  .  .  .  There 
is  One  who  smiles  from  afar — with  a  brightness  and  a 
serenity  that  we  can  hardly  understand — on  earth.  He 
has  none  of  the  sweet  intensity  of  the  anxious  cties — 
but  he  is  greater.  He  seems  to  be  waiting " 

She  halted,  and  caught  her  breath,  and  came  closer 
to  me.     The  sun  was  setting  and  we  were  under  the 
cliffs  at  the  edge  of  the  land,  where  the  stones  were 
9 


130  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

brightest.  We  could  see  but  one  pebble  at  a  glance, 
and  on  either  side  stretched  the  hueless  millions  that 
paved  the  beaches. 

"  They  are  waiting  over  there,  thick  as  these  stones, 
and  some  are  brighter  than  others,"  she  whispered. 

"  But  I  thought — Mary  Romany,  I  thought  they  were 
little  children  that  happy  women  dreamed  of." 

"  They  are  not  little  children  over  there.  .  .  .  Only 
they  want  to  be  again.  They  are  greater  than  the 
happiest  woman — that  One  is — that  Waiting  One.  .  .  . 
There  are  so  many — many — the  whole  beyond  is  filled 
with  them — like  the  stones  here — some  brighter  than 
others — the  thousands  that  have  nothing  to  do  with 
us — like  those  stones  which  we  only  see,  as  a  part  of 
the  shore.  They  are  waiting  for  the  world's  women  to 
grow  happy." 

.  .  .  Suddenly  I  realized  that  Mary  Romany  was 
trying  not  to  cry. 

".  .  .  But  I  shall  come  back  for  a  day  after  Wash 
ington — and  then,  you  must  know,  Mary  Romany,  that 
our  Year  is  a  love  pilgrimage — to  put  the  old  away 
and  attract  the  finest  of  the  new;  to  think  of  the 
woman  who  has  opened  the  doors,  that  I  may  hear  what 
the  winds  say,  and  the  trees  and  the  silence.  The  great 
mountains  shall  know  you,  because  my  thoughts  will 
call  you  there.  .  .  .  We  shall  always  remember  that  we 
shared  this  hard  thing — which  we  knew  from  "within 
was  right.  And  we  shall  have  a  greater  peace  and  a 
greater  beauty.  ...  I  think  that  brightest  One — the 
One  who  smiles  from  afar — I  think  he  is  waiting  for 
the  Year " 


Long  Island  131 

Now  I  saw  that  I  had  tried  the  wrong  way  to  help 
her  not  to  cry. 

"  Yes,  yes — until  we  are  purer  and  braver — but  that 
you  should  think  of  that.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  sometimes — 
that  I  must  suffer  from  not  loving  you  this  way 
always " 

"  Please — Mary  Beloved — it  is  being  with  you — that 
has  made  it  possible." 

.  .  .  Her  arms  lifted  and  she  drew  my  face  to  her 
breast.  "  Always,  always — your  yellow  rose — Ryerson 
Boy — shall  be  blooming  here.  .  .  ." 

12 

YUAN  KANG  Su  and  I  were  dining  at  the  Ambas 
sadors'  Club  in  Washington.  On  the  evening  before  I 
had  supped  with  Mary  Romany  in  Covent. 

"  You  have  kept  your  word,  my  friend,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  come  back  to  me  reeking  with  power." 

I  had  been  regarding  the  Oriental  face.  He  was  so 
fit  physically  that  he  would  wear  about  as  readily  as  a 
platinum-tip,  yet  he  was  feverish  from  fighting  and  close 
to  exhaustion. 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  try  to  say  anything  good- 
natured  about  me,"  he  laughed.  "  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  burning  off  the  bloom. 
.  .  .  You  will  meet  Shan  Wo  Kai  to-night,  and  I  shall 
listen " 

This  was  a  most  unusual  idea  to  me — that  I  should 
take  up  the  man's  cause  for  him  against  his  master.  An 
American  would  never  have  thought  of  it,  nor  remotely 
approached  the  manner  of  at-last-I-can-wash-my-hands- 


132  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of-the-whole-business,  with  which  he  uttered  the  final 
sentence. 

"  And  my  friend,  Jane  Forbes  ?  "  I  inquired  after  a 
while. 

"  She  is  still  in  Philadelphia.  I  have  not  seen  her. 
I  am  afraid  of  her — afraid  of  every  letter  and  messenger- 
boy." 

There  was  desolation  to  me  in  the  courage  of  this 
pair.  Yuan's  calmness  was  like  a  cold  wind  in  the 
room. 

"  You  mean  that  she  may  determine  what  is  best 
before  you  do?"  I  asked. 

"  Exactly.  .  .  .  And  whom  do  you  suppose  I  heard 
from  to-day  ?  " 

"Not  Huntoon?" 

"  The  man,  and  none  other.  He  will  be  on  from 
St.  Louis  to-morrow." 

On  the  way  to  the  Legation,  I  told  him  that  I  was 
leaving  shortly  for  South  America. 

Shan  Wo  Kai,  Yuan's  Chief,  was  a  passionate  ser 
vant  of  China.  America  knew  him  only  as  a  remarkable 
diplomat.  Because  he  was  Chinese,  the  American  press 
called  "  wily  "  what  would  have  been  denoted  wise  in 
another.  It  had  been  seven  years  since  he  first  reached 
our  world,  and  journeyed  eastward  from  San  Francisco, 
restless  and  bewildered  by  the  great  animation  which 
left  its  frenzy-marks  in  pile  granite,  singing  wires  and 
trans-continental  stretches  of  steel.  A  natural  ascetic, 
he  was  dismayed  and  humiliated  at  first.  These  days 
were  filled  with  loneliness  and  rebellion,  but  no  one 
could  have  discerned  this,  through  the  calm  interest, 
almost  ennui,  apparent  in  his  slant  eyes.  In  a  little 
while  he  was  adjusted,  and  found  the  lessons  of  the 


Long  Island  133 

younger  civilization  laughably  easy,  after  the  towering 
abstractions  which  his  mind  had  gripped  and  assimilated, 
back  in  the  silent  years  of  preparation. 

To  him,  America  was  a  metal — the  people  magnetized 
to  attract  metal,  and  to  be  maddened  by  it.  The  race- 
soul  of  the  nation,  to  his  eyes,  was  pent,  sheathed,  and 
poisoned  by  copper  and  silver  and  gold.  From  the 
thousands  who  passed  him  on  the  streets  of  New  York, 
and  later  in  Washington,  he  felt  the  looks  of  curiosity 
and  contempt.  They  could  not  distinguish  from  his 
clothing,  his  hands,  nor  his  brow,  that  he  was  not  a 
laundryman — an  extra  tall  one. 

The  career  of  Shan  Wo  Kai  was  much  that  Yuan 
Kang  Su's  was  meant  to  be.  He  appeared  young  for 
Minister  Plenipotentiary,  wore  a  queue,  and  the  clothing 
of  his  country.  His  English  was  admirable,  his  manner 
fascinating,  his  oblique  eyes  weary  unto  mystery.  His 
mind  was  hot  with  work.  He  loved  Yuan  Kang  Su 
for  himself,  but  more  for  the  promise  of  service  to 
China.  He  saw  that  Yuan  was  breaking  under  an  alien 
martyrdom. 

We  talked  for  an  hour.  I  felt  the  great  force  of 
the  man.  If  the  vitality  of  his  intelligence  was  at  all 
aroused,  it  was  because  though  an  American,  I  did  not 
raise  my  voice,  aired  no  studies,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
interest  in  making  an  impression.  It  is  true  that  I 
recalled  often  and  with  gusts  of  fervor,  that  this  time 
last  night  I  was  walking  the  cliffs  of  Covent  with  Mary 
Romany  and  a  hunting  moon. 

Finally  the  Minister  mentioned  Yuan.  After  that, 
until  the  telegrams  came,  Yuan  spoke  no  word.  The 
elder  man  told  me  much,  as  Yuan  had,  of  a  Chinese 
student's  life  of  preparation.  Memories  mellowed  where 


134  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

America  had  made  him  hard.  He  spoke  of  the  old 
teachers  and  their  shell-rimmed  glasses  and  how  they 
love  their  boys — the  first  fruits  of  the  Empire ;  and  how 
they  are  taught  from  babes  that  men  may  fail,  and  rulers 
may  sin,  but  that  China  herself — the  spirit — can  do  no 
wrong. 

Shan  Wo  Kai  paused,  tapped  the  table  nervously 
with  the  polished  claw  of  his  little  finger,  and  remarked, 
how  sadly  the  mighty  were  fallen. 

Amiably  I  questioned  the  "  fallen." 

"  Yuan,  thirty  years  old,  had  not  looked  upon  a 
woman  before,"  the  Minister  said.  "  He  was  pure,  as 
white  men  at  thirty  are  seldom  if  ever  pure.  He  looked 
into  a  woman's  eyes  and  has  forgotten  his  country " 

"  Would  a  woman  of  his  own  people — make  him 
forget  his  country  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  would  not  amount  to  the  same  thing.  We  do 
not  listen  to  women  in  China." 

"  The  woman  he  has  met  then,  is  more  formidable 
than  a  Chinese  woman  ?  " 

Since  he  did  not  hasten  to  speak,  I  added :  "  I  quite 
agree  with  you  that  this  woman  may  rival  the  abstraction, 
Motherland,  in  a  man's  heart — but  not  to  the  detriment 
of  his  service  to  either." 

He  spoke  of  what  Gautama,  Confucius,  Jesus,  and 
the  latter's  inspiring  armor-bearer,  Saint  Paul,  had  said 
upon  this  matter.  He  mentioned  the  northern  purity  of 
the  Fore-runner. 

"  If  China  is  looking  upon  Yuan  Kang  Su  as  a 
coming  prophet,"  said  I,  "  she  is  perhaps  unfortunate 
in  her  choice,  since  he  loves  a  woman " 

Instantly  he  saw  my  point — that  the  larger  dimension 
of  manhood  which  seems  to  contain  in  itself  the  feminine 


Long  Island  135 

quality  of  divination,  has  celibacy  for  one  of  its  first 
laws.  He  refused  to  concede,  however,  that  Yuan  might 
not  prove  a  prophet. 

"  My  career  is  but  burnished  brass.  His  may  prove 
fine  gold,"  he  said. 

"  But  those  who  are  called  to  prophecy,"  said  I, 
"  have  a  feminine  consciousness  and  a  man's  fighting 
quality  blended  into  a  sort  of  completion.  One  called 
to  prophecy  could  not  see  completion  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman — and  I  happened  to  witness  that  miracle  in 
Yuan's  case." 

I  liked  his  answer: 

"  I  wonder  if  many  of  those  called  to  prophecy,  as 
you  say,  have  not  rooked  into  the  eyes  of  a  woman — and 
turned  away.  I  think  of  your  Dante — whose  Lady  turned 
away — how  he  used  the  power  of  her  absence,  to  make 
his  race  distinguished.  Our  young  friend  might  take  his 
love  into  the  world's  work  for  China,  but  not  his  mate. 
.  .  .  What  is  the  meaning  of  life  on  earth  for  a  good 
man?  Which  is  the  greater  incident  in  a  good  man's 
life — winning  a  woman  or  refining  the  ties  of  brother 
hood  in  his  native  land?  Through  which  does  a  good 
man  leave  .a  perennial  warmth  of  gratitude  in  the  hearts 
of  his  people  ?  " 

Looking  straight  that  moment  into  the  eyes  of  the 
ranking  Chinese  in  America,  I  thought  of  Mary  Romany 
in  the  Other  Room  alone;  then,  of  Jane  Forbes  in 
Philadelphia  alone — of  women  everywhere  alone — whole 
races  of  women  alone. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  I  said,  "  that  you  want  to  use  Yuan 
Kang  Su  in  your  way.  ...  A  country  which  produces 
such  men  as  Yuan  should  give  them  the  first  gifts  of 
enlightenment — the  privilege  of  living  their  own  lives. 


136  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

The  love  of  man  and  woman  is  older  than  America, 
older  than  China.  It  is  the  love  of  man  and  woman 
that  gave  the  first  State-builders  their  ideals.  Vile 
debasements  of  the  love  of  man  and  woman  have  brought 
nations  to  impotence  and  ruin.  A  race  can  be  lifted 
only  by  great  men.  Great  men  are  the  sons  of  much 
loved  women.  There  have  always  been  vain  young  men, 
hasty  to  accept  the  teaching  of  the  defilement  of  women, 
swift  to  fill  the  monasteries,  who  have  fallen  far  short 
of  ideal  citizenship,  and  farther  from  prophecy.  I  hold 
that  no  nation  is  great  enough  to  say  to  a  man  and  a 
woman  who  greatly  love  each  other — *  Thou  shalt  not 
mate  together.' " 

"  China  is  very  miserable,"  Shan  Wo  Kai  said 
benignly.  "  It  is  her  lowest  hour.  Her  sons  must 
sustain  her.  A  true  man  would  not  marry — if  he  knew 
it  would  open  a  fatal  leak  in  his  mother's  heart.  That 
is  all " 

The  Minister's  quiet  words  were  uttered  with  the 
intent  to  kill  romance  in  the  soul  of  Yuan. 

"  It  is  a  very  effective  sentiment,"  I  said,  "  but  I 
should  have  to  know  the  Mother.  I  do  not  believe  in 
the  motherhood  of  China,  because — you  have  said  it: 
'  We  do  not  listen  to  women  in  China.'  You  must 
listen  to  women  before  you  can  have  a  national  mother 
hood." 

,  "  Your  view  is  interesting,"  he  said. 

"  China  has  held  on  for  centuries,  clung  to  types," 
I  added.  "  You  have  your  coolies,  your  merchants,  and 
your  students.  Each  class  has  its  subdivisions  more  rigid 
than  our  whole  social  scheme.  The  wife  of  a  scavenger- 
coolie  must  breed  a  scavenger-coolie — and  her  daughter, 
and  her  daughter.  If  she  should  breed  a  merchant. 


Long  Island  137 

there  would  be  a  scandal  among  the  scavengers.  The 
whole  class  would  quiver  with  hatred  and  rebellion. 
You  animalize  your  women  so  they  will  breed  true — 
an  animalized  society.  You  raise  a  great  man  artificially, 
with  infinite  care — and  then  sacrifice  him,  stop  his  evolu 
tion,  prevent  his  blood  from  lifting  his  race  all  to 
preserve  these  ancient  abominations " 

"  I  wish  to  understand  about  raising  a  great  man 
artificially,"  the  Minister  said. 

"  A  man  born  of  a  woman  whose  soul  has  never 
breathed — a  woman  to  whom  the  most  obvious  fact  of 
all  existence  is  that  she  is  a  racial  inferior  to  man; 
that  her  body  is  an  electrode  of  evil  desires ;  that  she  is 
a  spiritual  nonentity,  a  karmic  retribution  upon  her 
father,  in  her  not  being  born  a  boy — I  say,  a  man  born 
of  such  a  woman  and  fathered  from  babyhood  to 
maturity,  is  artificially  raised." 

"  Thank  you — I  see  clearly  your  point  of  view " 

Shan  Wo  Kai  replied.  Then  with  a  gentleness  that 
was  consummate,  and  in  less  than  a  thousand  words,  he 
laid  open  America — American  women,  American  systems 
and  manhood — left  her  down,  veins  open,  and  virulent 
septicaemia  set  in.  His  remarks  were  not  only  poisoned, 
but  poised.  Yet  it  was  so  true  a  picture  of  our  national 
life  that  a  man  of  vision  could  read  the  whole  story 
in  every  issue  of  every  great  American  daily. 

"  I  realize  what  you  have  seen,"  I  answered.  Cer 
tain  women  are  unlovely  here — apes  of  the  worst  of 
men,  bold,  loud-voiced,  much  given  to  brutal  things,  and 
much  do  they  suffer,  but  they  are  awake.  Strange  in 
this  man's  world,  but  awake;  a  few  are  making  weird 
uses  of  their  freedom,  but  they  are  realising  their  free- 


138  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

dom.  It  is  the  women  who  have  shown  us  the  value  of 
men.  Women  should  know,  for  theirs  is  the  agony 
of  bringing  forth  men.  This  sense  of  value  becoming  a 
national  conception  will  make  war  impossible.  .  .  .  Your 
women  in  the  mass  have  not  risen  to  the  conception 
of  bringing  forth  men.  Your  society  everywhere  reflects 
the  de-humanized  non-resistance  of  the  Chinese  women. 
It  is  like  the  hand  of  death  upon  the  whole  country's 
manhood.  Who  has  not  seen  your  spiritless  acceptance 
of  a  wrong  in  the  coming  of  the  Allies?  Men  must 
have  courage  from  the  women.  Courage  does  not  come 
from  women  reconciled  to  be  a  mere  physical  usage. 
If  in  America  we  lost  as  many  cattle  by  a  river  running 
wild,  as  you  lost  farmers  recently  in  an  overflow  of 
the  Huang  ho,  America  would  rise  to  prevent  a  re 
currence  with  millions  in  appropriation  and  the  best 
engineers  of  the  world.  The  meaning  of  all  this  is  that 
America,  through  free  women,  is  breeding  individuals. 
We  count  individuals  lost  in  every  calamity.  To  you 
the  loss  is  but  a  number  representing  types.  The 
spiritual  hope  of  the  world  lies  in  the  individual.  He 
will  make  the  brotherhood.  Forgive  me  for  saying  so 
much,  but  a  great  love-mating  is  more  important  to  the 
good  of  the  world,  than  the  abstractions,  China  and 
America." 

Both  Chinese  were  smiling.  I  had  a  peculiar  sense 
of  my  words  striking  harmless  against  a  bony  wall. 

"  Perhaps  now  we  had  better  take  the  case  of  Yuan 
in  its  more  intimate  aspect,"  said  the  Minister. 

I  bowed. 

"  I  speak  with  intense  admiration  for  your  concep 
tions,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  a  servant  of  China.  Yuan 


Long  Island  139 

is  trained  to  be.  Your  country  would  despise  this 
woman;  China  would  despise  Yuan  Kang  Su — if  they 
mated." 

I  bowed. 

"  Five  years  ago,  Japan  gave  us  a  series  of  severe 
defeats,"  Shan  Wo  Kai  said  with  bitterness.  "  The 
Allies  have  just  now  given  us  another.  You  attribute 
this  to  our  national  cowardice — which  is  far  from  proven 
to  my  satisfaction.  Rather,  as  I  see,  it  is  modern  war 
fare  against  non-equipment  and  disorganization.  You 
who  have  travelled  so  extensively  in  Asia  will  grant 
China's  superiority  to  Japan  mentally  and  morally.  And 
yet  it  was  the  young  Japanese  students  who  went  abroad 
learning  the  Western  ways  that  enabled  them  to  over 
whelm  us  five  years  ago.  These  young  men  will  lift 
Japan  to  the  first  flight  among  the  Powers.  You  have 
heard  of  the  big  part  played  by  the  Japanese  infantry 
— among  the  so-called  Allies  ?  "  * 

"  Yes." 

"  It  was  the  work  of  the  Japanese  young  men.  They 
will  furnish  breathing  places  for  their  crowded  people." 

"  But  you  have  told  me  that  you  despise  war  and 
commerce,"  I  declared — "  these  matters  which  Japan  is 
learning  from  the  West.  Yet,  you  would  use  your 
finest  young  men  to  copy  Japan's  copy  of  the  West. 
China  would  use  my  friend  Yuan  to  learn  and  become 
expert  in  war  and  commerce — the  bane  of  Europe  and 
the  madness  of  America.  Where  is  your  superiority 

*  Shan  Wo  Kai  was  speaking  thus  of  Japan  long  before  the 
Powers  granted  her  promise  and  potency.  This  was  four  years 
before  the  Russo-Japanese  war.  America  at  this  time  was 
inclined  to  regard  the  fine  showing  of  the  Japanese  with  the 
Allied  Armies,  as  a  dramatic  bit  of  good  fortune. 


140  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

to  Japan  and  to  the  West?  You  will  be  at  the  heels  of 
Japan,  but  fifty  years  behind  Europe  and  America  in 
the  national  psychological  agony  of  a  nation  passing 
through,  first,  its  military — and  then,  its  commercial  stage 
of  growth.  Europe  has  developed  monsters  in  this  art 
of  War,  and  America  has  developed  monsters  of  Com 
merce.  These  men  are  self-magnified  to  show  the  horror 
they  reek  with  to  the  few  who  will  see.  They  are 
Nature's  correctives — I  pray  not  futile  ones.  .  .  .  And 
yet  you  would  follow  us.  You  would  use  Yuan  Kang 
Su  as  one  of  the  young  enlighteners  to  carry  this  ignis 
fatuus  back  to  the  Orient.  You  would  deny  him  chil 
dren  and  break  a  woman's  heart,  so  that  he  may  take  to 
China  the  rankest  toxins  of  these  civilizations — that 
you  both  despise.  .  .  .  You  must  see,  you,  princes  among 
men,  that  the  imitator  must  always  copy;  that  what  one 
race  has  martyred  itself  to  learn,  cannot  be  instantly 
assimilated  by  another.  You  must  see  that  by  the  time 
you  have  your  copied  explosives  and  war-engines  brought 
to  a  finer  point  than  we  have  ever  brought  them — we 
will  be  able  to  poison  your  rain-clouds,  and  from  afar 
make  deadly  the  air  of  your  cities.  You  must  see  that 
metal  cannot  master  mind.  ...  If  we  could  only  see  so 

well  and  clearly — that  mind  cannot  master  spirit " 

At  this  moment,  certain  memorable  telegrams  were 
brought  in. 

13 

IMAGINE  how  the  face  of  a  mountain,  seen  from  a 
great  distance  on  a  gray  day,  would  change,  if  as  you 
watched,  a  light  rain  began  on  the  slopes.  So  it  was 
with  the  face  of  Yuan,  as  he  read  his  telegram, — a 
scarcely  perceptible  alteration,  as  if  his  features  were 


Long  Island  141 

withdrawn  a  little  in  a  mist.  The  Ambassador  was 
deeply  occupied  with  the  other  messages.  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  me  that  our  conference  was  at  an  end; 
that  I  was  very  tired,  and  far  from  the  Other  Room. 

Now,  the  answer  on  the  part  of  China  which  I  had 
expected  that  moment  from  Shan  Wo  Kai — did  not  come 
until  months  afterward. 

I  was  miserable.  I  had  talked  too  much.  The 
Minister  had  hardly  unmasked  his  batteries.  His  first 
and  last  words  after  the  receipt  of  the  telegrams  was 
honor  for  me  and  regret  for  the  necessary  ending  of  the 
talk.  .  .  .  Yuan,  who  could  not  leave,  had  rung  for  a 
cab.  He  said  that  he  would  call  at  my  hotel  early,  and 
pressed  my  hand.  ...  I  remember  looking  away  to  the 
north  and  seaward  from  my  hotel  window  that  night; 
thinking  of  the  advantages  of  saying  little  at  all  times. 
I  felt  that  I  had  done  Yuan  little  good. 

It  helped  me  to  remember,  however,  certain  walled 
cities  of  China — where  the  limbless  and  naked  lepers 
shoulder  themselves  along  through  the  mire ;  where  the 
poor  have  only  the  warrens  and  the  walls,  and  the  dogs 
come  forth  at  night  to  eat  the  filth,  and  lick  the  wounds 
of  the  sore  diseased ;  where  the  miles  of  little  merchants 
squat  like  spiders  awaiting  prey,  their  women  farther 
back  in  the  darkness  of  the  lairs;  the  streets  in  which  a 
white  man  dare  not  go,  lest  he  be  plucked  to  the  bone, 
as  by  multitudes  of  carrion  birds;  creatures  in  human 
forms,  to  whom  would  seem  an  amiable  relaxation,  what 
to  us  is  the  most  loathsome  abandonment.  .  .  .  She  was 
not  a  Mother  to  me — China,  whom  these  two  fine  men 
worshipped, — but  a  degraded  monster  whose  breaking- 
down  tissues  menaced  and  dumfounded  the  earth. 

It  was  mid-night.     That  there  was  a  train  for  New 


142  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

York  at  one,  haunted  me,  but  I  could  not  leave.  I  felt 
that  I  should  go  to  Philadelphia  to  see  Jane  Forbes,  but 
her  address  had  not  yet  been  given  me.  .  .  .  Yuan  came 
early. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  said,  drinking  his  tea  and 
professing  that  he  had  already  breakfasted,  "you  must 
trouble  no  longer.  You  fought  the  good  fight.  It  is 
lost — because  I  cannot  sustain  you  at  the  last." 

"Has  she  written?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  She  perceives  that  my  life  will  be  better 
alone  for  the  present.  In  some  distant  time — we  may 
meet  again." 

"  Was  that  in  your  telegram  ?  " 

"  No.  A  special  letter  was  in  my  room  when  I 
finally  reached  them  this  morning.  .  .  .  But,  that  is 
closed.  Shan  Wo  Kai  is  no  longer  interested  in  that." 

The  moments  were  heavy  with  intensity. 

"  You  came  in  the  very  front  of  action,"  he  added 
with  a  smile.  "  I  heard  from  Philadelphia,  and  Shan 
Wo  Kai  heard  from  China." 

With  his  arms  crossed,  he  lifted  his  shoulders — as 
if  to  let  the  deluge  slip  over  him.  The  gesture  was 
vivid  with,  "  Let  it  come."  My  questions,  not  without 
difficulty,  made  it  clear  to  me  in  the  next  ten  minutes, 
that  Shan  Wo  Kai  had  heard  officially  of  Yuan's  assist 
ance  to  the  white  people  during  the  Rebellion.  The 
younger  man  had  been  recalled.  Even  if  Jane  Forbes 
had  not  written,  Yuan  would  not  have  planned  to  see 
her  again.  A  Chinese  of  caste  in  disgrace,  considers 
himself  dead,  in  so  far  as  a  large  part  of  his  human 
relations  are  concerned.  ...  I  was  to  carry  a  message 
to  her  on  the  following  day. 

"  Please  let  me  talk  of  something  very  close  to  my 


Long  Island  143 

heart,  dear  friend,"  he  said  finally  and  with  weariness. 
"  I  could  not  try  even  to  change  the  most  exterior 
process  which  helped  the  lady  to  her  decision — since  this 
has  happened.  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  something  of 
myself  long  ago.  Much  that  you  said  about  China  we 
understand,  but  there  was  one  thing  about  making  boy- 
babes  into  men  artificially — by  fathering  instead  of 
mothering — that  was  strange  and  wonderful  to  us.  .  .  . 
You  made  me  think  of  myself  long  ago,  as  you  talked 
about  women  and  romance,  and  the  making  of  men  by 
mothering.  In  the  midst  of  your  talk  I  was  away  back 
among  the  women  of  my  house  and  the  queer  little 
mother.  .  .  . 

"  Then  I  went  away  to  school.  One  day  they  told 
me  that  she  was  dead.  To  them  who  brought  the  news, 
it  was  as  if  a  loved  servant  had — ended  his  service.  I 
did  not  go  home.  I  did  not  even  go  to  my  room.  I 
felt  numbed,  but  did  not  say  so.  They  would  not  have 
understood.  Only  I  kept  remembering  her.  She  had 
seldom  spoken.  I  did  not  recall  a  single  word  of  hers. 
She  did  not  know  nor  dream  of  such  things  as  you  have 
suggested.  Jane  Forbes  does  not.  .  .  .  And  yet,  I  think, 
if  that  queer  little  Chinese  woman  and  Jane  Forbes  had 
been  in  the  chambers  of  the  Ambassador  last  night,  it 
would  have  all  come  back  to  them — what  you  said  and 
much  more  besides — as  if  they  had  known  it  once,  and 
men  had  taught  them  to  forget." 

We  were  silent,  until  he  repeated : 

"  The  women  know  it,  but  they  have  forgotten.  A 
man  must  say  it  to  them — to  make  them  remember." 

Now  this  thought  seemed  much  greater  to  Yuan  Kang- 
Su  that  morning — than  his  recall  to  China  and  his 
destroyed  romance. 


144  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  When  I  first  really  knew  you,"  he  added  in  a 
moment,  "  I  felt  there  was  something  great  for  me  to 
learn.  How  quickly  it  came — the  knowledge,  the  woman, 
the  lesson,  and  now  the  memory.  ...  I  wish  that  queer 
little  woman — she  was  incredibly  little,  Thomas — had 
lived  for  me  to  tell  her." 

I  dared  not  speak.  The  world  was  very  impressive 
that  moment — not  wicked  at  all — only  the  world  had 
forgotten  its  benefits  and  was  lost  and  suffering  without 
them. 

"-You  were  very  much  right.  Sometime  Shan  Wo 
Kai  will  tell  you — how  you  struck  his  heart.  China 
is  called  to  defend  herself  in  the  cruel  boyish  modern 
way.  She  will  fall  in  the  lusts  of  it:  first  war,  as  you 
said ;  then  the  later  mania,  commerce — and  the  holy  days 
will  be  more  and  more  forgotten.  It  is  true.  The  evil 
of  the  Old  will  make  her  abandon  the  good  of  the  Old, 
for  the  evil  of  the  New.  ...  It  is  strange  to  us — to  hear 
that  the  Light  shines  through  women  upon  the  race. 
We  have  tried  to  make  it  shine  through  men — and  so 
we  have  our  walled  hells." 

My  friend  was  already  talking  of  himself  as  of  one 
in  the  past — not  in  the  formation  of  sentences — but  in 
the  spirit  of  every  thought.  He  was  singing  his  swan 
song,  and  though  a  hush  was  upon  my  world — it  was 
afterward  that  I  knew.  .  .  .  He  said  many  things  I 
cannot  repeat  about  the  talk's  trend  the  night  before; 
how  he  had  spoken  with  his  master  about  it  after  I  was 
gone;  how  China  had  forgotten  the  mothers.  ...  It 
must  have  come  from  Mary  Romany  and  their  own 
readiness.  Surely  I  was  miserable  enough  over  my 
part  when  it  was  done. 

".  .  .  And  so  to  me,  it  is  not  Mother  China,  quite  as 


Long  Island  145 

before,"  he  said  hours  afterward.  "  It  is  Old  Man 
China.  Shan  Wo  Kai  has  not  failed  to  see.  .  .  .  Old 
Man  China,  and  his  arteries  are  scant  and  hard — his 
beard  is  unclean,  his  eyes  dim  and  vile.  He  has  for 
gotten  his  hill-rock  upon  which  the  arts  of  life  were 
graven.  He  has  forgotten  his  hill-rock  to  which  the 
images  came — fortitude;  purity,  hope,  vision.  He  cries 
out  for  his  sons,  but  they  do  not  hear  him — cries  for  his 
daughters,  but  they  are  hidden  away.  .  .  .  But  the  dark 
ened  mother,  back  in  the  gloom  of  ages — she  hears  his 
voice.  She  would  come  to  him,  but  he  has  forgotten 
her.  He  cries  out — but  not  her  name — the  sick  Old  Man 
who  needs  her  great  Mothering  now." 

All  that  day  we  wandered  about  the  city,  and  Wash 
ington  was  as  strange  to  my  eyes,  as  to  the  stranger's. 
It  seemed  a  place  of  ruins,  by  a  forgotten  river,  whither 
I  was  led  by  one  whose  earth-life  ended  with  this  day — 
and  all  that  he  said  was  wise  and  calm  and  unearthly 
clear.  We  fasted  together  until  the  dusk — and  the  day  was 
a  book  of  mighty  pictures  and  visions — an  apocalypse. 
It  comes  to  me  now  that  China  has  not  failed,  if  only 
because  of  Yuan  Kang  Su,  whose  dreams  were  so  vast, 
and  whose  spirit  was  so  strong  and  sweet.  .  .  .  For  always 
the  multitudes  must  die.  Whole  nations  rot  down;  by 
millions  the  animal  men  are  entrapped  in  life,  dismem 
bered,  devoured  by  their  animal  kings,  waste  away  and 
corrupt  the  earth.  But  one  youth  among  them  sees.  The 
precious  vials  of  the  national  spirit  are  poured  upon  and 
into  him.  He  stands  against  the  tide  of  his  people — 
weeps  for  them  in  his  martyrdom.  Upon  him,  for  eternity, 
is  the  imprint  of  the  whole.  The  last  devil  of  nature 
is  shaken  and  convulsed  by  his  standing  alone;  ttie 
animal  in  man  defeated,  and  the  angel  arisen.  Night 
10 


146  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

falls  upon  teeming  Philistia — but  one  youth  of  visions 
stands  forth — one  youth  born  of  woman.  The  good 
God  seems  content  with  this  yield  of  Earth,  and  forever 
blessed  is  the  woman  who  interpreted  His  dream. 

...  At  last  we  found  the  dusk  about  us,  Yuan  and  I, 
— and  remembered  Huntoon. 


14 

I  HAVE  a  suspicion  that  Huntoon  thought  us  a  bit 
mad  that  night.  We  found  him  through  a  card  he  had 
left  for  Yuan,  and  talked  till  mid-night  in  a  buffet  of 
his  choice — accumulating  impossible  cigars  and  drinking 
dull  sickening  nothings.  In  the  wash  of  this  soft  truck, 
Huntoon  arose  frequently  to  announce  that  he  "  wasn't 
taking  a  thing  in  the  States."  Yet,  he  was  at  his  ease 
with  the  flow  of  drink  about  him — the  atmosphere  of 
tables,  glasses,  smoke  and  loosed  laughter. 

*  It  was  good  to  have  him  again,  though  we  saw  that 
he  would  die  in  the  cities.  He  had  lost  the  knack  of 
St.  Louis,  and  had  "  honed  "  to  be  away  after  the  first 
two  days,  he  said ;  and  yet  the  mother  and  "  Old  Top  " 
had  been  dear  to  him.  She  had  wept  over  him  for  his 
courage  "  up  the  river,"  and  "  Old  Top  "  had  offered 
him  business  at  home.  It  appears  Huntoon  had  explained 
that  he  was  just  the  same,  deserved  quite  as  much  as  ever 
to  be  back  on  remittance.  In  his  own  charming  selfless 
fashion,  he  believed  this,  but  Yuan  and  I  saw  it  differ 
ently — more  as  She  saw  it,  I  think.  ...  It  was  I  who 
mentioned  South  America,  and  I  saw  the  gladness  in 
Ytian's  eyes  at  the  quick-starting  interest  of  Huntoon. 
This  was  the  best  moment  of  the  night. 


Long  Island  147 

I  was  leaving  at  one  in  the  morning  for  Philadelphia 
— to  be  back  in  Washington  on  the  third  day  following. 
Yuan  and  Huntoon  were  to  wait  for  me.  .  .  . 

In  leaving  Yuan  Kang  Su,  I  had  the  odd  sense  that 
it  was  not  safe  for  him  to  be  alone,  that  he  carried 
explosives  without  adequate  knowledge  or  respect  for 
them.  I  never  was  so  close  to  weeping  for  a  man's 
plight.  This  perhaps  is  just  a  saying.  A  jagged  mote 
or  an  acrid  gas  would  likely  be  necessary,  if  I  were 
called  upon  to  deliver  tears.  But  Yuan  seemed  so  young 
to  be  divested,  and  so  brave.  Many  of  the  things  he 
told  me  through  that  long  day  were  too  delicate-tinted 
for  the  expression  of  my  words — yet  they  live  for  me 
still,  perfume-breathing  buds  in  the  far  night-fields  of  the 
mind.  .  .  . 

These  were  days  of  soul  history.  Yesterday  Yuan; 
this  morning  Jane  Forbes.  Only  two  hours  in  Philadelphia. 
The  alternative  was  a  bitter  one,  indeed — to-night  in 
New  York  instead  of  Covent.  .  .  .  Jane  Forbes  was  at 
the  Graham  Refuge — a  charity  house  for  little  girls.  It 
was  not  far  from  the  Broad  Street  Station.  I  waited  in 
the  superintendent's  dingy  office.  Everything  was  old 
and  gray ;  the  day  was  gray.  .  .  .  The  little  girls  were 
passing  by  the  door.  They  seemed  to  bring  flower- 
dust  and  the  smell  of  stuffed  birds  from  the  dark  halls. 
They  passed  out  rigidly  for  their  airing.  The  woman 
accompanying  them  was  rigid — and  her  work  of  the 
hour  was  "  sets  of  twos."  .  .  .  Gray  gingham  in  sets  of 
twos.  Far  beyond,  in  the  dark  hall,  I  saw  thin  compact 
cots,  doubtless  in  sets  of  twos — a  long  dim  room  of 
many  breathings.  .  .  .  There  was  one  little  face  that 
passed — fragile  and  pale  as  a  Roman  hyacinth.  I  felt 
dry  and  shrunken  about  the  heart.  .  .  .  There  was  another 


148  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

room  of  small  red  chairs — all  straight.  Rag  rugs  on 
the  floor,  and  pale  scrawny  bouquets  were  pictured  in 
the  wall  paper.  On  the  wall  before  me  was  an  enlarged 
photograph,  done  in  charcoal — an  old  man  whose  beard 
was  not  what  it  had  been,  when  he  gave  up  the  vanity  of 
wearing  a  neck-tie.  "  Seth  G.  Graham "  was  written 
beneath. 

"  Seth  Gingham  Graham,"  I  concluded. 

Jane  Forbes  entered.  .  .  .  She  had  on  a  cap  and  was 
helping.  More  than  ever  the  drooping  curve  of  the 
shoulder  was  there;  and  the  pale  face,  just  as  calm  as 
ever,  did  not  look  so  large.  Was  it  the  cap  or  the  in 
corrigible  gray  of  this  Gingham  house  ?  .  .  .  I  had  vowed 
long  ago  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Jane  Forbes  and  learn 
wisdom,  but  this  place  burdened  me  with  the  ponderosity 
of  materials — the  massy  importance  of  substances.  All 
the  more  wicked  did  I  feel  in  my  own  heart,  because 
this  was  so.  ...  And  Jane  Forbes  had  crossed  the  world 
from  Liu  chuan  to  come  home,  and  this  was  the  home. 

"  I  was  brought  here  a  baby,"  she  said.  "  I  lived 
here  fifteen  years." 

I  told  her  of  Yuan — of  our  yesterday  together.  All 
the  old  spiritual  loveliness  came  back  to  her  presence. 

"  If  China  does  not  want  him,  because  he  helped  to 
save  our  lives  .  .  .  won't  you  please  ask  him  to  tell  me? 
I  can  gladly  let  him  go  for  the  good  of  his  work — but 
if  China  does  not  want  his  work,  it  would  be  too  bad  if 
he  did  not  come  to  me." 

I  told  her  that  Yuan  felt  the  recall  in  the  nature  of 
a  disgrace — that  he  must  be  free  from  that  before  he 
could  be  happy  in  the  greater  thing. 

"  I  have  no  concern  with  what  China  thinks,"  she 
said  impatiently.  "  I  think  he  was  noble  to  help  us — 


Long  Island  149 

you  do.  We  have  no  concern  with  disgrace  like  that. 
Tell  him  to  come  to  me  in  China,  if  they  do  not  want 
him — or  if  he  is  ill.  Tell  him  to  find  me  always,  if  only 
for  a  little  while — when  he  is  ill." 

"In  China?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  shall  go  back.  China  has  spoiled  me 
for  this.  There  are  enough  here  to  do  the  work.  .  .  . 
You  know  I  was  always  called  to  China.  When  I  went 
out  there  twelve  years  ago  ...  it  seemed  as  if  a  dear  one 
had  sent  for  me.  ...  It  is  coming  back — that  same 
feeling." 

She  was  hungry  to  talk  of  Yuan,  and  listened  with 
down-cast  eyes,  the  faintest  red  suffusing  her  cheeks. 

"  I  did  not  know  what  my  love  for  China  meant  until 
that  day  by  the  river,"  she  said  finally.  "  And  then  I 
was  surprised.  But  I  couldn't  see  that  we  were  different 
— only  that  he  was  so  wise.  It  was  like  a  knell  to  hear 
how  great  a  man  he  was  in  his  country.  He  would 
never  have  told  me.  It  was  Mr.  Huntoon  after  he  had 
gone  that  day " 

I  could  see  Huntoon  telling  her — making  the  best 
of  what  he  could  not  fathom — picturing  Yuan  as  a 
prince  of  yellow  men. 

"  I  couldn't  be  quite  happy  about  that,"  she  went  on. 
"  There  are  always  so  many  complications  where  one  is 
rich  and  powerful.  And  then  it  slowly  made  itself  clear 
to  me  on  the  Pacific — I  was  very  stupid  about  it  at 
first — that  when  we  were  together,  evil  came  to  the 
minds  of  others.  ...  I  wondered  why  I  always  felt  like 
shuddering  at  the  faces.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  be 
cause  I  had  been  Inside — away  up  the  River — so  long. 
You  see,  one  dares  not  be  responsible  for  evil  in  other 
minds.  .  .  .  If  we  went  away  alone  together,  then  we 


150  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

would  lose  our  work — and  the  Lord  put  us  here  to  do 
our  work.  One  cannot  think  of  one's  self  altogether. 
...  I  know  Yuan  does  not  think  of  coming  to  see  me 
again.  I  did  not  ask  him,  nor  did  I  tell  him  not  to  come. 
Perhaps  it  is  wisest,  but  please,  you  will  tell  him  to 
come  to  me,  if  he  is  in  trouble  at  Peking — won't  you — 
or  if  he  is  ill?  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  And  that  was  all.  More  words,  but  that  was 
the  message.  The  sets  of  two  filed  past,  and  the  clatter 
settled  again.  I  seemed  to  hear  just  the  crust  of  things, 
as  one  with  cotton  in  his  ears.  They  were  not  quite 
alive — nothing  in  that  great  gray  place  was  quite  alive. 
Only  the  brightness  upon  the  brow  of  Jane  Forbes — 
that  was  more  than  life. 

"  I  shall  tell  him.  We  shall  walk  together  as  yester 
day — and  I  shall  tell  him  all,"  I  said.  "And  whether 
you  want  it  or  not,  /  shall  come  to  you — if  ever  I  am 
ill  and  alone,  and  they  do  not  want  me  in  my  country " 

"  It  makes  me  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  Do — 
remember  to  do  that,  Mr.  Ryerson, — I  would  be  so  grate 
ful  and  different " 

She  looked  at  me  searchingly  then,  and  said  I  seemed 
very  far  from  loneliness  and  expatriation,  but  that  she 
would  remember.  The  rigid  woman  came  in.  ...  Every 
where  was  gray  fog  except  the  lamp  of  Jane  Forbes* 
brow  .  .  .  and  I  knew  what  had  curved  her  shoulders 
forward.  It  was  carrying  little  children  when  she  was 
but  a  child  herself.  . . . 

Hours  of  steady  travel — the  New  York  train,  ferry, 
cross-town,  ferry — and  then  the  clattering  coach  for 
Covent.  ...  It  rather  surprised  me  that  it  could  rain 
on  Long  Island;  yet  here  it  was,  with  that  heavy  win- 


Long  Island  151 

triness  which  endures.  Upon  the  mellow  maturity  of 
the  year — a  stroke  had  fallen.  Certain  trees  were  like 
old  Lears  in  the  storm.  The  faces  in  the  coach  partook 
of  the  inexhaustible  sadness  into  which  all  things  were 
sunken.  And  so  I  dragged  burdens  along  Rapture's 
roadway,  but  as  one  who  knows  a  mate  stands  at  the 
journey's  end  to  help  him  put  his  burdens  down.  Even 
then,  I  was  profoundly  grateful  and  humble;  even  then, 
I  realized  that  I  had  come  into  the  world  intrinsic  with 
many  blessings.  Few  are  given  to  see,  as  I  had  seen  in 
Jane  Forbes  and  her  lover — human  souls — meeting  in 
all  their  splendid  and  eternal  valor  at  the  hill-rock.  .  .  . 
Now  from  a  distance,  I  perceive  that  I  was  greatly 
shaken  by  those  days — days  that  made  soul-history  for 
me. 

She  was  standing  where  I  had  seen  her  first — in 
a  black  raincoat  and  a  small  soft  hat  with  a  black 
wing.  There  was  a  puddle  as  she  stepped  forward,  and 
I  saw  the  black  sheen  of  her  stocking. 

Silence  from  the  Year  had  fallen  upon  us.  The 
blessing  of  being  side-by-side  now  had  its  anguish  from 
the  Year.  The  Covent  concentration  was  broken.  .  .  . 
There  had  been  magic  in  my  return  from  Washington 
to  Covent  for  a  day,  instead  of  making  the  first  separation 
the  real  one.  This  had  kept  the  earlier  Covent  days  per 
fect,  and  had  deferred  the  reality  which  now  settled  down. 
.  „;.  When  we  spoke,  it  was  of  the  advantages  of  the 
Year.  We  were  very  blithe  and  brave  about  it;  yet  my 
mind  was  running  over  the  nearest  of  the  seven  times 
seven-score  ways,  in  which  lovers  may  lose  life  or  mind. 
The  placid  disintegration  of  Jane  Forbes  and  the  stricken 
Yuan,  mystic  with  suffering — these  were  scarcely  of  the 
earth  as  I  was.  For  me  was  the  old  tension  of  the 


152  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

parting — the  staring  into  the  End.  In  this  I  was  held 
cunningly,  cripplingly. 

On  the  veranda,  after  supper,  I  told  her  of  the 
two — Yuan  swept  away  by  a  vile  yellow  force  that  meant 
millions  and  millions  of  debased  human  beings;  how 
he  had  caught  at  a  frail  dream  of  the  little  mother,  so 
queer  and  utterly  gone,  and  how  I  wandered  all  day  with 
him  as  one  listening  to  an  immortal  poem.  And  then  I 
told  her  of  Jane  Forbes  and  the  sets  of  twos,  the  one 
little  flower-like  face  that  haunted  me,  like  a  jewel  among 
bleak  stones;  and  again  of  the  woman  who  only  asked 
her  lover  to  come,  when  broken  in  health  or  cast  forth 
by  his  country. 

"  How  little  we  are,  to  feel  miserable,"  she  whispered. 
"  The  good  Lord,  as  she  says,  does  not  put  such  master 
ful  mysteries  upon  us.  He  has  only  asked  the  Year 
for  us  to  become  purer  and  wiser " 

"  As  one  in  the  East  would  go  away  into  the  solitude 
to  prepare  for  Initiation,"  I  finished. 

"  Yes — and  what  a  holy  thing  it  may  be " 

"  For  the  One  who  smiles  from  afar " 

Her  fingers  pressed  my  wrist  in  strange  rapture. 

"  We  could  not  be  quite  happy — if  we  disavowed 
this  impulse,"  she  said  a  moment  afterward.  "  It  is  so 
old  to  me — almost  as  old  as  Oporto.  My  mother  began 
talking  of  it  then.  It  was  a  dream  of  hers.  She  said 
her  life  would  not  have  failed — if  we  were  great  and 
good  in  this  forgotten  life-business  of  loving.  And 
then — you  knew  it  before  I  spoke.  Always  I  feel  humble 
when  I  think  of  Hong  Kong,  and  how  hard  I  thought 
it  would  be  to  make  you  see.  And  to  think  that  I  have 
been  leaning  on  your  strength.  .  .  .  But  that  has  been 
dear  for  me  to  do.  .  .  ." 


Long  Island  153 

"  And  then,"  she  added,  "  there  is  something  so 
significant — in  your  going  to  my  father.  I've  been  think 
ing  of  that  while  you  were  away.  My  mother  would 
have  loved  that  impulse.  You  will  understand  him.  You 
will  talk  together — and  be  friends." 

Just  now  we  saw  the  beacon  at  the  far  end  of  the 
veranda — ash  flicked  from  a  fat  cigar. 

"  You  took  the  golden  days  away  when  you  left,  Mr. 
Ryerson,"  the  proprietor  said  jovially.  "  But  to-morrow 
will  be  fine,  past  doubt " 

On  his  way  he  went,  leaving  a  trail  of  fragrant 
smoke  and  genial  chuckles — a  combination  in  which  he 
seldom  got  far  without  a  fit  of  coughing.  .  .  .  The  next 
day  was  not  fine,  darker  if  anything,  and  certainly  colder. 
The  wind  was  straight  from  the  north,  and  hourly  picked 
up  more  enthusiasm,  until  in  mid-afternoon  it  was 
shrieking  across  the  Sound.  .  .  .  We  made  a  last  call 
at  all  our  haunts — even  to  the  low  mounds.  It  was 
F  Minor  day  at  Concert-Hall,  and  often  we  stood  in 
the  door  of  the  little  house  to  watch  the  hurtling  clouds 
— all  the  shades  of  gray,  weaving  together  in  the  rough 
wide  texture  of  storm.  The  surf  was  a  new  voice  below ; 
and  the  wheeling  gulls  put  a  thin  plaintive  note  against 
the  crusty  booming.  Always  that  little  tuning-fork  of 
the  gulls  tried  to  re-organize  the  dissonances.  A  vast 
new  acreage  of  pebbles  was  lit  by  the  greedy  in-creeping 
seas ;  and  when  I  looked  at  the  shore  where  the  millions 
of  stones  were  lying,  I  turned  to  Mary  Romany  with  the 
thought  of  those  who  waited  unborn  in  the  ocean  of  time 
— for  the  women  of  the  world  to  become  happy. 

Night  came  wildly  and  with  bitter  cold.  A  strong 
man  swiftly  wearied  of  the  expenditure  of  vitality  in 
remaining  out.  Mary  Romany  and  I  stayed  by  the  big 


154  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

open-fire  in  the  sitting-room.  I  had  closed  with  our  host ; 
and  he  appeared  laughingly  with  a  handful  of  my  favorite 
cigars — stopped  a  moment  by  the  fire  to  ask  a  final  ques 
tion  about  South  America.  The  far  journey  seemed  to 
challenge  him.  Mary  Romany  left  us  for  a  moment, 
and  we  talked  until  she  came.  I  remember  his  thorough 
"  good-night "  to  us.  ...  It  was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of 
him,  for  he  took  a  journey  of  his  own  that  winter. 
But  I  have  never  forgotten.  .  .  .  There  was  a  queer 
laughing  light  in  Mary  Romany's  eyes,  as  I  glanced 
up  from  the  coals,  when  we  were  alone. 

"  He  has  lit  the  grate  in  our — in  my  room,"  she 
whispered.  (I  have  smiled  a  thousand  times  over  that 
slip.)  "  There's  lots  of  coal  there,  and  so  cozy,  with 
the  old  house  creaking  like  a  ship." 

And  so  we  went  up  into  the  firelight.  Mary  Romany 
brought  the  pillows  and  covered  them  in  her  steamer 
shawls  and  rugs,  and  we  sat  down  before  the  fire  and 
talked,  staring  into  the  coals.  .  .  .  We  talked  of  letters, 
and  the  stages  of  the  journey,  and  what  her  father  would 
say.  She  told  all  she  had  heard  of  his  new  venture. 
Even  Santell  was  mentioned.  She  only  knew  that  he 
had  been  with  her  father  for  many  years.  She  was 
not  to  stay  long  in  Covent.  Letters  would  be  sent  me  in 
her  father's  care.  I  was  to  write  her  at  New  York 
until  reaching  Tropicania,  and  then  give  my  letters  to 
Mr.  Romany.  He  was  always  quick  to  establish  postal 
connections  in  the  remotest  places,  she  said;  and  she 
could  always  be  sure  of  his  letters.  Her  plans  for  the 
year  were  too  vague  to  be  told.  They  would  clear  in 
good  time ;  I  would  know  where  to  come  when  the  year 
was  over.  I  asked  if  she  meant  to  study ;  and  she  could 
not  even  be  sure  of  that. 

"  I'm  afraid,  I  shall  want  to  wait  until  we  can  work 


Long  Island  155 

together,"  she  whispered.  "  I  have  found  such  splendid 
zest  in  our  little  house.  It  will  be  hard  and  tame  to 
work  alone.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  shall  be  thinking  of  you, — down 
there — thinking  of  you  and  your  mountains.  I  shall 
want  to  come  closer  to  you — to  some  place  where  my 
thoughts  will  not  have  to  travel  so  far — some  place 
where  it  is  not  winter  when  you  are  summer." 

Once  I  seemed  to  open  my  eyes — from  a  dream — 
that  I  was  coming  home.  The  land-breeze  came  out  to 
the  ship  from  my  native  country.  And  I  saw  little 
children,  and  the  red  earth ;  and  the  faint  fleshly  perfume 
of  the  yellow  rose — that  was  the  land-breath  of  my 
country.  .  .  .  My  eyes  were  really  opened.  Mary  Romany 
was  bending  over,  raising  me  in  her  arms.  I  was  never 
farther  from  sleep,  but  I  had  gone  away  dreaming;  and 
there  was  gray  in  the  panes  and  the  fire  was  low.  Her 
arms  were  cold  and  aching,  but  when  I  kissed  and 
pitied  them, — "  They  have  so  long  to  be  empty,"  she 
answered.  "  They  must  not  be  empty  now.  .  .  ." 

15 

YUAN  had  waited  for  me  in  Washington  as  a  sprinter 
awaits  the  pistol.  Within  three  hours  after  my  arrival, 
a  train  left  for  the  west — the  last  that  would  connect 
with  the  steamer  for  China,  it  was  almost  necessary  for 
him  to  catch.  Missing  this  train  meant  the  loss  of  a 
week  in  Peking.  We  did  some  quick  thinking.  I  en 
countered  a  really  surprising  pressure  of  disinclination 
to  leave  him. 

Huntoon  wanted  some  of  my  South  America,  as  he 
stated  it.  Yuan  and  I  desired  him  to  have  it.  The 
interest  of  the  Chinese  in  this  intrepid  and  impossible 


156  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

boy,  because  their  heart-interests  converged  at  the  same 
point,  has  always  been  a  nice  bit  of  human  delicacy  to  me. 

"  Huntoon,"  said  I,  "  it  will  make  only  a  difference 
of  ten  days  or  two  weeks,  if  we  sail  for  Guayaquil  from 
San  Francisco — instead  of  going  down  Atlantic  way." 

He  licked  his  lips  and  looked  distressed.  I  expected 
Yuan  to  command  me  not  to  break  the  original  order; 
and  when  he  did  not  instantly — my  decision  formed. 

"  I've  got  a  ship  sailing  from  Baltimore  to-morrow 
night,"  Huntoon  said  with  effort.  "  My  bag's  packed. 
I'd  better  get  it.  I  don't  feel  juicy  enough  to  cross  the 
States  again — past  St.  Louis.  I'll  wait  for  you  in 
Guayaquil — and  we'll  go  down  to — what's  this  mining 
town ?" 

"  Libertad,"  said  I. 

"  Together/'  said  he. 

I  was  too  rushed  to  realize  that  he  was  suffering,  as 
he  told  me  afterward,  from  "  dry-rot."  The  incorrigible 
wings  of  conduct,  clipped  to  the  bone  for  the  St.  Louis 
return,  had  grown  again.  He  was  sick  for  a  ship  under 
his  feet  and  a  smoking-room  that  never  closed.  I  hesi 
tated  a  second  for  Yuan  to  speak,  and  vaguely  under 
stood  how  he  wanted  me — when  he  did  not.  And  so  we 
arranged — Huntoon  to  wait  for  me  at  Guayaquil. 

Exactly  fifteen  hours  after  I  had  left  Mary  Romany 
in  Covent,  a  train  pulled  out  of  Washington  for  the 
west,  Yuan  and  I  in  one  of  the  night  coaches.  Huntoon 
and  his  bag  had  left  for  Baltimore  twenty  minutes  earlier 
from  the  same  station.  .  .  .  Fifteen  hours  of  the  Year 
gone — I  remembered  the  morning — the  rain,  the  cold  and 
the  rending.  The  next  night  it  was  Chicago  we  were 
leaving,  and  Huntoon  was  at  sea  again. 

That  second  night,  departing  from  Dearborn  Street, 


Long  Island  157 

Yuan  asked  me  to  tell  him  once  more  of  my  call  at  the 
Charity  House  in  Philadelphia.  The  long  evening  was 
before  us,  and  I  began  as  one  would  tell  a  story  to  a 
child — a  story  that  the  child  had  heard  often  and 
approved,  all  the  details,  all  the  words. 

The  strong  elements  of  the  man  were  whipped  and 
cowering.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  it  burned  to  his 
fingers  without  touching  his  lips  again.  He  did  not 
seem  to  hate  China  nor  to  blame  the  Ambassador.  It 
was  his  utter  acceptance  of  the  fate  of  Yuan  Kang  Su 
which  tortured  me.  The  vigorous  human  nature,  re 
pressed  so  long,  had  risen  with  all  its  accumulated  might 
to  protect  and  treasure  this  woman.  Yet  he  had  not 
gone  to  Philadelphia  to  see  her,  even  for  an  hour.  I 
think  Jane  Forbes  understood  this  better  than  I — as  she 
loved  the  Orient  better  than  I.  We  smoked  late  in  the 
buffet,  and  then  back  to  our  sleeper.  Yuan  was  just 
across  the  aisle.  After  his  curtain  was  drawn,  I  imagined 
something  like  the  rigor  of  death  behind  it.  I  did  not 
sleep  well.  I  had  my  thoughts — but  there  seemed  a 
maelstrom  in  that  intense  silence  opposite.  It  drew  me 
out  of  myself,  to  China,  to  the  Ambassador's  chambers 
again,  the  Graham  House,  and  all  the  places  where  I 
had  known  Yuan  Kang  Su.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  for  an  hour,  the  fields,  rivers  and 
sleepy  little  towns  formed  a  blurred  composite  in  my 
mind,  before  the  first  call  to  breakfast.  Yuan  smiled,  as 
he  passed  on  to  the  wash-room.  I  could  see  no  trace 
of  the  fancied  ravages  of  the  night,  when  he  returned. 
The  diner,  met  at  Omaha,  was  forward.  We  were  pass 
ing  through  the  second  of  a  pair  of  tourist  coaches,  when 
Yuan  halted  and  caught  my  arm,  as  if  to  keep  from 
falling.  I  followed  his  eyes.  Five  or  six  sections  ahead 
to  the  right,  was  the  sloping  shoulder  I  knew  so  well. 


158  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

The  same  contour;  the  same  brown  hair  in  its  plain 
doing.  I  gazed  breathlessly,  but  not  so  unreasonably  as 
to  hope.  Something  out  of  the  past  warned  me  not 
to  hope.  .  .  .  Just  then  the  figure  turned  to  some  in 
visible  being  at  her  side  .  .  .  and  to  Yuan  the  coach 
became  a  celestial  habitation.  Speed,  sounds,  landscape, 
were  lost  to  my  eyes.  I  had  heard  her  voice,  and  I  knew 
there  was  a  child  beside  her — hidden  by  the  caneback  of 
the  tourist  seat.  And  so  I  followed  Yuan  down  the 
aisle.  His  face  was  immobile,  his  heart  raging. 

"  Jane  Forbes,"  he  said,  as  if  with  mighty  effort. 

She  started,  paled,  and  cried  his  name.  "  Oh,  why 
did — how  did  you  come  on  this  train  ?  " 

He  had  caught  up  the  little  one  and  was  sitting  be 
side  her.  "  To  catch  the  Doric,"  he  answered. 

She  raised  her  hand  over  his  shoulder  to  me,  and 
smiled,  the  color  rising  faintly  to  her  white  cheeks. 

"  And  that's  why  /  hurried,"  she  said.  ..."  I  couldn't 
stay  there.  I  wanted  to  get  back  to  China.  Mr.  Ryerson 
told  me  you  were  returning — but  not  so  soon.  I  wanted 
to  return  with  you,  but  I  thought  if  we  journeyed  across 
the  continent  together  and  across  the  Pacific — it  would 
be  all  the  harder  for  us  to  remember  our  work.  I  didn't 
think  it  possible  for  you  to  try  for  the  Doric." 

"  It  must  have  been  managed  for  us,"  Yuan  said. 

I  was  awed  by  the  same  thought.  It  was  some 
moments  before  we  turned  to  the  child,  who  had  been 
frightened  at  first  by  Yuan,  but  only  for  a  moment.  A 
bleak  little  face — pinched  and  harried  soul  of  a  little 
girl  of  six. 

And  now  I  was  remembering  the  sets  of  twos,  and 
the  frail  haunting  face — that  one  bit  of  loveliness  so 
tragically  out  of  place,  the  one  that  had  not  blundered 
into  the  world.  Jane  Forbes  remembered  instantly. 


Long  Island  159 

"  But  I  could  not  have  taken  her — for  mine,"  she 
said. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  want  to  know — why  not  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Why,  she  is  radiant — exquisite  to  the  finger  nails." 

"  All  the  more— why  not  ?  " 

"Don't  you  see?  A  beautiful  child  like  that?  There 
are  beautiful  homes  for  her.  There  are  plenty  to  take 
the  perfect  children.  .  .  .  Always  in  China — until  that 

day "  (I  knew  she  meant  the  day  on  the  Liu  chuan 

cliffs)  " — I  intended  to  go  back  to  Philadelphia  and  take 
a  little  girl  for  my  own.  When  it  proved  best  for  Yuan's 
work,  you  know — I  thought  of  the  little  girl  again.  But, 
of  course,  I  wouldn't  take  one  that  it  would  be  easy 
to  find  a  home  for.  This  dear  little  Ellen — would  have 
to  take  pot-luck,  and  she  is  really  very  sweet — to  me." 

Those   few   sentences  are  the  blood  and  bone   and 

• 

spirit  of  Jane  Forbes.  Nothing  had  ever  made  me  see 
the  youth  of  my  soul  as  this.  Millenniums  of  evolution 
stretched  between  the  Roman  hyacinth  and  this  little 
face.  She  could  have  had  the  other  just  as  well.  .  .  . 

Before  she  would  go  to  breakfast,  she  said : 

"  I  have  not  bought  my  passage.  Seven  or  eight 
days  would  make  little  difference  to  me.  If  you  think 
it  best,  I  can  change  at  Granger — go  up  to  Portland  and 
Vancouver.  There's  an  Empress  steamer  from  there  in 
a  week,  you  know " 

"  After  Providence  has  intervened  against  your  iron- 
willed  decrees — "  I  exclaimed,  and  mentally  withdrew 
with  a  look  of  apology  to  Yuan. 

"  I  beg  of  you  not  to  think  of  it.  These  days — our 
dispensation.  I  shall  be  a  very  strong  man  in  Peking," 
he  said. 

She  settled  back  in  the   cane-seat  and  pressed  the 


160  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

child  close  to  her.  "  It  seemed — as  if  I  had  to  say  it," 
she  murmured.  Then  she  agreed  to  transfer  to  our 
coach. 

I  remained  apart,  as  much  as  they  would  let  me — 
for  were  they  not  beginning  upon  their  Covent — these 
two?  .  .  .  But  many  times  in  the  next  three  days  I  was 
third  of  a  committee  of  arrangements — to  found  a 
Mission  for  Chinese  little  girls  up  the  river.  This  was 
a  dream  of  Yuan  Kang  Su's,  though  I  love  to  think  it 
came  from  the  mother,  so  queer,  so  incredibly  little. 
Yuan  had  a  private  fortune  for  this  work,  and  I  have 
always  been  grateful  that  he  permitted  me  to  assist  in 
the  easy  way  of  a  man  with  money. 

Though  it  was  a  sacred  thing — there  was  one  night 
in  which  I  told  them  of  Covent  and  our  Year.  It  became 
more  and  more  impressive  to  the  woman  as  the  hours 
passed,  the  inner  potentialities  unfolding.  .  .  .  They  were 
marvellously  restored,  the  two,  and  the  little  child  was 
always  near  them — and  the  dream  of  the  Mission  up  the 
river,  the  work  of  her  heart  of  hearts  to  Jane  Forbes, 
her  Mission.  The  happy  hours  are  hard  to  write  about 
now — when  I  think. 

And  so  I  saw  them  over  the  plains  and  mountains. 
December  joined  us  en  route,  and  I  walked  with  them  on 
nameless  platforms,  in  the  brisk  air  of  the  new  winter. 
...  It  was  only  when  the  last  visitors  were  ordered 
ashore  in  the  heart  of  the  night,  that  I  left  the  ship.  .  .  . 
In  the  dawn  from  Sutro  Heights,  I  watched  the  old 
Doric  slip  forth  from  the  Gate  (I  followed  three  days 
afterward,  but  sheered  away  to  the  southward),  and 
white  she  was,  swinging  off  in  the  mists  toward  the 
Farallones.  .  .  .  Less  than  a  week  of  the  Year  was  gone. 


Ill 

LOST  VALLEY 


11 


IF  you  have  a  map  of  the  Americas  on  your  wall, 
drive  a  pin  into  New  York  City,  and  drop  a  string  from 
it.  Falling  naturally  the  string  will  cut  off  a  small,  ex 
tremely  western  strip  of  South  America  that  bulges 
out  into  the  Pacific. 

This  little  strip  contains  all  the  properties  which 
made  that  year  wonderful  to  me :  The  highest  mountains 
of  the  hemisphere;  mountain-lakes  that  only  the  mid 
day  sun  finds,  and  which  live  in  a  sort  of  dim  enchant 
ment  mornings  and  afternoons;  rivers  that  rush  and 
leap  and  cut  deep  silent  ways  to  the  sea ;  a  rocky  serrated 
coast  overlooking  the  Pacific ;  torrid,  temperate  and  frigid 
climate  all  in  a  day's  climb ;  one  river,  the  Rio  Calderon, 
which  the  devil  baited  with  gold  to  catch  men ;  a  ruined 
city  and  the  radiant  valley,  Tropicania.  To  this  valley, 
through  which  runs  the  golden  Calderon,  came  war, 
strategy,  a  complicated  system  of  espionage,  friends, 
foes,  fortunes,  beggary,  ambition,  dissolution,  love.  .  .  . 
For  me  in  everything  and  everywhere — in  the  nights  and 
mornings,  in  the  heights  and  gorges,  by  river  and  shore 
— was  present  the  vision  of  a  woman.  And  it  is  true  that 
certain  women  came  to  the  settlement. 

Nicholas  Romany  had  named  the  valley  Tropicania, 
and  the  name  meant  war  and  mining  projects  even  in 
Guayaquil,  where  Romany  was  also  known.  There  was 
a  certain  thrill  in  the  first  mention  of  his  name — "  the  old 
Master,"  he  was  designated  by  the  miners. 

The  Guayaquil  reports  on  the  situation  in  Tropicania 
were  conflicting.  One  report  detailed  how  the  govern- 

163 


164  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

ment  of  Ecuador  had  finally  whipped  Romany,  who  had 
fled  to  the  sea,  leaving  a  million  dollars  worth  of  mining- 
machinery  in  the  valley  on  the  banks  of  the  Calderon. 
Later,  word  came  that  this  alleged  flight  was  merely  a 
coup  of  the  old  Master's.  A  prospector  remarked  that 
he'd  rather  contract  to  get  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  away 
from  the  Children  of  Israel,  than  this  river  property  away 
from  Nick  Romany.  Also,  I  heard  that  Romany  was  a 
fiend  and  a  friend,  fire-eater,  fool,  king  and  wizard.  Out 
of  it  all,  I  discerned  that  I  must  find  out  for  myself. 

Huntoon  had  not  waited,  the  pull  of  action  being 
too  strong  toward  Libertad.  I  found  his  note  at 
Guayaquil,  dated  two  weeks  before,  that  all  was  exactly 
as  it  should  be  (the  pressure  on  this  point  vaguely 
troubled  me),  and  that  he  would  be  waiting  at  the 
rim  of  things,  which  was  Libertad,  a  seven  days' 
journey,  generally  southward  by  pack-train.  Libertad 
is  in  from  the  sea,  some  twelve  miles,  and  clings  high 
on  the  slope  of  Mount  Moloch,  one  of  the  hugest 
masses  of  the  Andes,  and  the  northern  seal  of  Tropi- 
cania  valley.  The  packers  gossiped  about  Nick  Romany 
— how  he  had  promoted  gold-wars  around  the  world, 
and  once  had  tried  to  sell  a  brood  of  torpedo-destroyers 
to  Japan.  There  were  men  from  the  States  among 
the  mule-riders.  Libertad  was  as  bad  a  town,  they 
intimated,  as  ever  our  West  or  Far  North  knew,  but 
more  quiet  about  it,  as  befits  a  place  where  sin  is  of 
age. 

We  rode  the  last  miles  in  the  dusk  and  night.  The 
impression  of  confusion  and  alarm  might  have  come 
from  a  more  lawful  settlement  entered  in  the  darkness ; 
but  more  than  ever  before,  I  was  sensitive  to  subtle 
under-currents  which  clothed  all  action  and  matter  with 


Lost  Valley  165 

unreality.  There  were  moments  since  the  Covent  parting 
in  which  I  seemed  to  dangle  between  those  matters 
which  can  actually  be  touched  and  felt  and  seen,  and 
other  ranges  of  creation  quite  as  tangible  to  finer  estates 
of  consciousness.  .  .  .  Libertad  sat  in  the  night  upon 
her  mountain-side,  and  Moloch's  glacier  was  white  with 
the  early  moon.  I  heard  the  restless  voices  of  the 
miners,  as  I  had  heard  them  in  the  North  with  terrible 
gales  beating  about  little  shacks,  whose  every  crevice 
was  red  with  fire-light.  And  here,  from  the  valley 
of  Tropicania,  came  a  soft  warm  wind,  fragrant  as 
from  fruit  groves. 

It  was  romance  to  me,  that  wind.  Emotions  crowded 
in,  which  made  child's  play  of  my  hunger  and  thirst. 
Mary  Romany's  father  was  down  in  that  valley,  with 
an  army  barking  around  him  for  all  I  knew,  or  tearing 
at  his  flanks.  I  felt  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  serve 
the  old  Master, — even  with  my  life. 

I  was  a  trifle  disappointed  that  Huntoon  did  not 
meet  the  pack-train  at  the  Libertad  corral.  Following 
my  peon  through  the  narrow  streets,  the  shrill  laugh 
of  a  woman  reached  me,  with  a  man's  oath  before 
and  afterward.  It  made  me  think  with  an  ache  that 
all  men  and  women  were  not  so  charged  with  romance 
as  I ;  also,  that  if  I  wished  to  be  reckoned  with  among 
these  people,  I  must  meet  them  on  their  own  ground 
of  close-clipped  speech,  and  back  up  what  I  said,  hard- 
handedly.  ...  I  knew  that  end  of  it,  but  Mary  Romany 
seemed  to  have  softened  me  for  the  camps. 

The  gold-fever  lay  upon  everything.  I  felt  it  in 
my  veins,  as  a  man  who  has  become  a  sponge  to 
malaria,  knows  every  stage  of  the  germ's  life-cycle  in 
his  blood,  by  the  symptoms  of  his  own  malaise. 


166  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

.  .  .  Yes,  they  knew  Huntoon,  at  the  hotel.  He  had 
given  up  his  room  several  days  before.  .  .  .  Yes,  he 
had  spoken  of  Senor  Ryerson's  arrival.  No  more  was 
to  be  learned. 

The  hotel  at  Libertad  was  a  broad  low  stucco  affair, 
an  ancient  Spanish  setting,  for  a  life  as  new  and  raw 
as  the  tented  wildernesses  of  North  American  eldoradoes. 
The  faces  I  passed,  the  smell  of  the  lamp-lit  halls,  the 
garlic  that  rose  from  the  kitchen,  the  clink  of  glasses 
and  the  voices  that  go  with  them,  and  the  soft  night- 
wind  that  blurred  the  lamp  in  the  servant's  hand — all 
of  these  made  evil  and  memorable  the  arrival.  It  was 
not  unlike  the  early  shifting  part  of  an  evil  dream. 
Matters  like  this  had  never  affected  me  so  strongly 
before.  Loving  a  woman  surely  spoils  a  man  for 
coping  with  old  familiar  devils. 

The  balcony  saved  the  situation — the  only  feature 
not  named  in  the  price-lists,  and  the  most  desirable. 
Old  leisurely  Spain  had  built  it,  Spanish  soldiers  and 
their  women  had  sung  there.  ...  I  tried  to  shake  off 
all  encroachments  of  memory  and  aspiration  so  com- 
mandingly  out  of  place.  Black,  hasting  figures  moved 
about  in  the  street  below,  and  the  voice  of  a  man  that 
filled  me  with  detestation,  talked  and  talked  from  be 
neath.  There  was  a  partition  in  the  balcony,  but  I 
heard  occasionally  the  voices  of  a  woman  and  a  man 
in  the  room  to  the  right. 

At  supper  there  was  one  face  I  seemed  to  have 
seen  before.  The  man  noted  that  I  studied  him,  and 
arose  before  I  had  finished.  I  strolled  below  for  an  hour, 
in  the  vain  hope  that  Huntoon  might  come  in. 

Plainly  one  couldn't  join  Nicholas  Romany  simply 
by  walking  down  into  the  valley.  Orion,  a  native 


Lost  Valley  167 

leader,  had  cut  off  the  gold-seeker  from  Libertad.  Orion 
was  gathering  to  strike  again,  it  was  said,  while  Romany 
was  spread  out  over  the  ten  miles  between  his  head 
quarters  and  the  sea.  Why  is  he  spread  out?  It  also 
became  clear  that  I  must  not  ask  questions  too  freely. 
Orion  sympathizers  were  strong  in  Libertad.  Their 
sympathy  was  based  on  the  conviction  that  Orion  would 
whip  Romany  in  the  end.  Wherever  sentiment  entered, 
it  was  for  the  gold-king,  whose  failures  around  the 
world  had  not  been  the  result  of  wit-lack  nor  game- 
lessness,  but  rather  because  of  the  tremendous  size  of 
the  affairs  he  undertook.  Romany's  history  challenged 
the  adventurous  heart,  and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  his 
fortunes  had  altered  the  great  money-centres.  When 
Romany  was  whipped,  it  took  an  army  or  a  parliament. 
The  lesser  powers  all  knew  'him — but  no  individual,  I 
was  informed,  had  ever  been  able  to  declare,  "  Romany 
ruined  me." 

These  large  sayings  held  my  thought  as  I  went  up 
stairs,  and  roamed  to  the  balcony  to  finish  a  cigar. 
Voices  murmured  in  the  next  room,  words  occasionally 
reaching  me  around  or  over  the  wooden  partition  of 
the  balcony.  The  woman's  voice  seemed  somehow 
good.  She  must  have  drawn  nearer  the  balcony  door, 
for  at  length  I  heard,  in  a  pleading  but  good-natured 
tone: 

"  But  I  know  he  was  an  American,  and  he  looked 
well-bred " 

The  man's  tones  from  deeper  in  the  room  were 
humorous,  but  the  words  did  not  reach  me. 

"  He  may  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  went  on.  "  He 
looked  lonely  and  sad  and  New  Yorkish.  Really,  dear, 
we  should  see  some  one  else — or  we'll  tire  of  each 


168  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

other.  Don't  let  me  ever  get  tired  of  you,  Melton. 
A  pair  of  saints  could  exhaust  each  other  shut  up  in 
one  room  forever.  .  .  .  I'm  used  to  a  big  family.  I  don't 
want  to  get  so  that  I  know  what  you'll  say  next.  That's 
fatal." 

Again  the  man  talked  laughingly.  I  went  in,  not 
caring  for  the  novelty  further.  There  was  a  tap  at  my 
door.  The  man  I  had  noted  at  supper  was  there.  His 
figure  was  small  and  slender,  his  voice  deep  and  desir 
able.  He  invited  me  to  come  in  and  smoke  a  cigar 
with  him. 

"  We're  in  the  next  room,"  he  explained,  "  and  have 
been  shut  up  for  several  days.  Mrs.  Yarbin  wants  to 
see  an  American " 

I    followed. 

The  woman  was  smiling  within.  "  This  is  a  little 
girl,  Mr.  Ryerson,"  he  said  lightly,  "who  declared  she 
never  would  tire  of  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  she  broke  in.  "  I'm  used — I'm 
used  to  a  big  family.  .  ,  ." 

She  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  lamp-rays — a  bright 
frank  face,  a  blond  woman  with  wide  blue  eyes  and 
full  lips;  a  fine  and  quickening  influence,  but  physically 
paramount.  I  could  not  imagine  her  lying.  She  con 
fided  at  once  that  she  liked  the  company  of  men  better 
than  women ;  that  she  understood  few  women.  Here 
is  a  natural  outlaw,  thought  I, — not  a  destroyer,  but  a 
woman  who  needs  big  ranges,  who  could  not  keep  her 
health  in  any  sort  of  corral, — a  woman  dangerous  when 
shut  up, 

My  first  idea  of  Yarbin  had  been  that  he  was  some 
what  insignificant  to  carry  such  an  elegant  manner. 
His  voice  was  out  of  proportion  to  his  weight,  a  deep 


Lost  Valley  169 

cultured  utterance  which  made  the  eye  look  over  his 
head.  My  mind  continually  strove  to  trace  where  I  had 
seen  him.  A  face  is  always  harder  to  discern  in  a  dim 
light  than  dead  objects.  .  .  .  They  knew  nothing  of 
Huntoon. 

This  room  was  more  livable  than  mine — a  touch  of 
a  feminine  hand  here  and  there.  Many  things  of  their 
own  were  about — objects  of  more  richness  than  taste. 
The  woman  seemed  aching  with  eagerness  to  tell  long- 
pent  matters.  She  started  with  a  new  freshness,  the 
lyric  of  Mary  Romany  in  my  brain.  Perhaps  she  felt, 
in  some  vague  way,  that  she  recalled  another  to  me. 
I  liked  them  both  and  wondered  if  they  were  quite  happy 
together. 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  I  turned  with  the  flare.  His 
face  was  deeply,  tensely  lined ;  small,  but  not  paltry ;  it 
was  not  exactly  a  gamester's  face,  but  a  gentleman's,  in 
the  sense  of  being  well-bred.  The  whole  had  come  forth 
with  strange  vividness  in  the  slow  flame  of  the  match. 
He  had  met  his  rights  and  wrongs,  and  had  found 
trouble  in  getting  them  straight  with  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  the  world.  The  old  worry  of  mine  about 
having  seen  him  somewhere  kept  up  an  obtrusive 
activity  in  my  memory,  that  spoiled  either  connected  talk 
or  thinking.  .  .  . 

A  queer  evening,  altogether:  the  old  sweet  song 
humming  in  my  mind;  the  open-hearted,  unfenced 
creature,  serving  cakes  and  wine ;  the  mystery  of  Yarbin ; 
talk  of  the  West,  Ohio,  New  York — and  at  last,  the 
flash  that  I  had  seen  Yarbin's  face  in  a  newspaper,  asso 
ciated  with  the  loss  of  a  great  sum  of  money — one  of 
the  wanted.  The  San  Francisco  papers  had  been  filled 
with  it  the  day  I  arrived  from  China  with  Jane  Forbes 


170  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

and  Yuan.  I  remembered  nothing  of  the  story,  nor  the 
man's  name  (it  wasn't  Melton,  certainly  not  Yarbin), 
— only  that  it  was  big  game,  and  a  clever  get-away. 
This  was  just  the  mental  process.  I  did  not  definitely 
affix  the  man  before  me  to  the  robbery.  ...  I  heard 
their  voices  vaguely  for  a  moment;  saw  Yarbin  regard 
ing  me  with  keenness.  His  affair  was  none  of  mine ;  but 
I  saw  that  if  guilty,  he  had  no  way  of  being  sure  I  had 
not  come  for  him. 

Talk  waned  after  that,  except  from  the  woman.  The 
wine  made  her  delightfully  communicative,  but  Yarbin 
again  and  again  interposed  in  his  gentle  humorous  way. 
They  were  waiting  in  Libertad  for  a  chance  to  get  down 
into  the  valley  of  Tropicania.  The  danger  of  a  battle 
daily  between  Orion  and  Romany's  defenders  was  re 
sponsible  for  their  delay  in  Libertad.  Yarbin  remarked 
.that  the  settlement  of  Tropicania  was  worth  trying  if  a 
man  wanted  to  make  a  fortune. 

"  It's  just  my  kind  of  an  adventure,  if  we  can  only 
get  there,"  the  woman  said. 

"  Are  there  other  women  there  in  the  valley  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  They  say  so,  but  of 
course  they  went  down  before  this  Orion  whistled  up  his 
army." 

"  If  Romany  were  whipped,"  Yarbin  explained,  "  the 
valley  would  be  open  again,  but  there  wouldn't  be  a 
chance  for  a  fortune.  The  natives  would  swarm  over 
this  enterprising  stranger's  machinery." 

"  What  if  Orion  were  whipped  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That's  hardly  possible,"  said  Yarbin.  "  Reinforce 
ments  are  unlimited.  Romany's  got  the  position,  but 
the  best  he  can  do  is  to  hold  off  the  jackals  and  wash 


Lost  Valley  171 

gold.     After  that  he's  got  to  escape  with  it.     But  they 

say  he's  the  man  for  the  job " 

I  had  heard  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  about 
Nicholas  Romany.  I  arose  to  retire.  Yarbin  seemed 
dismayed  at  my  passing  from  his  sight.  There  appeared 
to  be  no  way  to  make  him  see  that  I  was  without 
pecuniary  interest  in  his  past. 


LIBERTAD  lay  brazen  in  morning  sunlight.  My 
first  thought  was  of  Huntoon.  Apart  from  this  irritating 
expectancy,  my  idea  of  a  day's  work  was  to  determine 
the  best  way  to  reach  Tropicania.  Libertad  was  frankly 
awaiting  the  issue  of  a  battle  that  would  decide  the  fate 
of  the  gold-venture  and  possibly  the  life  of  Nicholas 
Romany.  I  did  not  like  the  thought  of  remaining  out 
side  in  this  contingency.  I  ascertained  in  the  forenoon 
that  Romany  himself  divided  his  time  between  his  river 
property  and  the  sea.  The  canyon  of  the  Calderon,  it 
was  said,  cut  off  the  valley  from  Libertad.  The  main 
force  of  Orion  was  stationed  at  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
on  the  north  side,  while  Romany  held  the  headland 
opposite. 

It  was  clear  to  me  by  this  time  why  Romany  suf 
fered  himself  to  be  strung  out,  when  he  might  have 
kept  a  compact  force  around  his  river  property  in 
definitely.  Only  a  ship-load  of  rifles  and  ammunition 
would  make  him  take  such  a  chance.  Perhaps  he  was 
running  close  on  these  essentials — and  yet,  it  didn't 
seem  to  me  that  he  would  invest  a  million  in  mining 
machinery,  and  provide  only  enough  gun-metal  to  fight 
a  few  skirmishes. 


172  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

The  whole  thing  was  excessively  vague,  as  geogra 
phical  and  strategical  matters  may  be,  to  one  hardly 
straight  on  the  cardinal  points  of  a  locality.  What 
'occurred  that  mid-forenoon  might  have  been  regarded 
as  a  complication  at  first.  A  dusty  forlorn  peon  had 
asked  my  name  at  the  desk,  and  when  assured  that  I 
was  "  Senor  Ry-so  "  produced  brown  paper  bearing  the 
following  words  printed  out  with  incredible  effort: 

Get  a  couple  of  mules  and  follow  this  man.  It's  all 
right.  HUNTOON. 

P.  S.    Bring  your  duffle. 

Now  I  knew  Huntoon  could  write.  Why,  therefore, 
the  printing?  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  certain 
exigencies  a  man  can  sit  a  horse  when  he  cannot  shave 
himself;  also  that  he  can  print  letters  in  angles  when 
it's  out  of  the  question  to  make  the  chirographical 
curves.  I  was  very  sorry  and  prepared  to  follow  the 
peon,  whom  I  left  below  to  be  washed  and  fed.  .  .  . 
I  couldn't  be  sure,  but  it  looked  as  if  my  baggage  had 
been  overhauled  somewhat  since  I  had  left  in  the  morn 
ing.  Nothing  had  been  taken.  I  wondered  if  I  were 
so  badly  on  Yarbin's  nerves  as  to  force  him  to  examine 
my  effects  to  find,  if  possible,  a  clue  to  my  real  purpose 
in  Libertad.  .  .  .  The  peon  had  assured  me  that  the 
journey  to  Huntoon  would  require  three  hours.  "  Bring 
your  duffle  "  meant  the  purchase  of  saddle-bags  and  the 
storing  of  the  large  part  of  my  baggage.  The  suspicion 
that  Huntoon  had  a  way  to  reach  the  valley,  made  me 
take  necessities.  These  I  was  packing  when  Yarbin 
tapped  at  my  door. 

I  told  him  I  had  heard  from  my  friend,  and  was  off 
to  join  him. 


Lost  Valley  173 

"  I  heard  this  morning,"  Yarbin  reported,  "  that  a 
man  might  journey  west  to  the  coast  fifteen  miles  or 
so,  and  then  sail  down  to  the  mouth  of  the  Calderon 
where  Romany's  outposts  are." 

"  But  Orion's  outposts  are  there,  too,"  said  I. 

"  I  thought  of  that,  but  they  say  Romany  holds  a 
sort  of  promontory.  I'd  look  into  it  further,  but  one 
can't  take  chances  with  a  woman  along " 

"  If  I  make  it,  I  may  be  able  to  help  you,"  said  I, 
looking  up  at  him  from  my  knees.  I  was  straining  at 
the  buckle  of  the  saddle-bags.  He  stood  there  uneasily, 
regarding  me  with  a  queer  mixture  of  hope  and  alarm. 
I  wasn't  so  sure  about  his  being  yellow  or  insignificant. 

"  Yarbin,"  I  said,  straightening  up,  "  Nobody  sent  me 
here.  Nobody  has  a  commercial  hook  on  what  I  do. 
If  that  means  anything  to  you — all  right.  If  it  doesn't 
— there's  no  harm  done,  I  hope." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  shut  up  a 
bit  lately;  it's  drawn  me  rather  fine.  Do  you — I  speak 
purely  as  a  friend — happen  to  be  '  shy ' — in  any  way  ?  " 

I  took  it  in  the  way  he  meant.  "  For  the  present — 
all  fixed,  thank  you,"  said  I. 

He  bowed,  and  turned  toward  the  hall,  calling: 
"  Lillian " 

She  came  to  the  door  as  she  was — holding  a  silk 
robe  in  place  with  one  hand.  The  other  was  extended 
to  me.  Her  hair  was  but  half-done,  yet  she  looked 
fresh  and  attractive  in  her  fearless,  wide-open  way.  I 
always  thought  of  her  as  a  creature  of  vast  ranging. 

"  Mr.  Ryerson  is  leaving,"  Yarbin  said.  "  We  may 
overtake  him  in  the  valley,  if  luck  favors " 

"  I'm  in  favor  of  taking  luck  by  the  nearest  handle," 
she  remarked,  laughing  at  us ;  and  then  added,  in  a 


174  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

queer  incomprehensible  way,  "  You  two  look  good  to 
gether.  .  .  .  Good-by." 

Her  hand  was  warm  and  small  and  strong;  and 
Yarbin's  was  lean  and  eager  in  mine.  I  was  glad  for 
the  changed  look  in  his  eyes. 

We  were  in  the  saddle  before  noon.  The  peon  led 
me  straight  into  the  west,  a  fact  that  reminded  me  of 
the  way  valley-ward,  that  Yarbin  had  suggested.  Once, 
as  I  fell  into  musing,  a  sharp  and  sudden  sense  of 
Mary  Romany  uprose  in  my  consciousness.  Always 
when  the  rush  of  externals  kept  her  apart  for  a  time, 
her  advent  was  just  so  much  sharper.  Through  the 
entire  journey  from  Covent  to  this  hour,  I  had  only  to 
fall  into  an  abstraction  to  touch  the  borders  of  illusion 
— the  flutter  of  a  leaf  seemed  Mary  Romany's  hand 
waving  in  the  distance;  or  a  sense  of  the  dear  remem 
bered  figure  around  the  next  turn  of  the  trail,  as  now, 
was  a  sweet  excitement  which  turned  to  pain  when 
dismal  actualities  were  restored. 

Between  three  and  four,  we  reached  the  small  coast 
town.  It  was  a  place  of  fishermen — -blown  and  faded 
brown  men,  the  shine  of  black  long  since  gone  from 
their  hair,  to  the  account  of  sun  and  salt;  men  used 
to  looking  into  the  wind's  eye.  .  .  .  And  there,  just  as 
far  west  as  the  Continent  would  permit,  stood  Huntoon 
upon  the  rocky  shore.  He  let  me  come  up  to  him  (a 
broad-hatted  and  high-booted  Huntoon  in  blue  shirt 
and  English  riding-breeches  with  doe-skin  reinforce 
ments),  the  mighty  western  sea  for  a  back-ground.  I 
saw  the  pouter  breast,  the  saddle  sinews,  the  throat 
ruffled  with  scars — a  red  and  throbbing  throat  just  now — 
and  the  cool  blue  eyes  swam  in  inflammations.  Huntoon 


Lost  Valley  175 

had  drilled  himself  not  to  be  effusive.  I  had  given  over 
my  mule  to  the  peon  at  a  discreet  distance,  and  had 
stalked  my  friend. 

"  We're  going  down  coast,"  he  said,  accepting  my 
hand  casually.  "  B'long  to  geodetic  survey — an'  we're 
going  down  coast." 

These  remarks  were  torn  out,  like  strips  of  paper, 
his  teeth  being  closed  fast  upon  the  main  document.  I 
did  not  smile,  and  refrained  from  asking  what  geodetic 
survey.  A  peculiar  transfiguration  occurred.  One  eye 
lid  lopped  down  upon  his  cheek,  covering  the  blue  eye, 
and  remained  there,  his  head  cocked  to  one  side  to  im 
press  the  finished  strategy  required  for  conducting  sur 
vey  business.  Since  the  dumb  Pacific  was  behind,  the 
fishermen  afar  about  their  business,  and  the  peon  out  of 
hearing,  the  consummate  delicacy  of  the  proceedings 
afoot,  moved  me.  Moreover,  all  this  had  consumed 
energy.  Huntoon  drew  a  black  bottle  as  large  as  a 
rolling-pin  from  his  hip-pocket. 

"  Have  little  slug,"  he  suggested.  "  Plenty  sea-air 
for  chaser." 

I  drank  with  him,  just  a  touch.  It  was  like  the 
jolt  of  an  explosive — opaline  rum.  A  little  in  a  saucer 
would  make  faces  at  you.  My  friend  now  drew  me  still 
more  remotely  apart,  arm  about  my  shoulder,  and  con 
fided  bashfully  that  we  were  about  to  go  down  the  coast 
on  geodetic  business.  He  then  inquired  with  hinting 
fondness  if  I  would  have  a  little  slug.  Literally  the 
man  fumed  in  the  brisk  air  and  vivid  sunlight  of  the 
beach.  ...  I  asked  presently  if  he  had  a  boat. 

"  Tha's  a'right.    Yawl." 

Huntoon  further  intimated  circuitously  that  since  the 
fishermen  went  to  bed  early,  it  would  be  child's  play 


176  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

to  appropriate  the  yawl  desired.  Having  plenty  of  sur 
vey  expense  money,  I  replied,  we  would  do  well  not  t£> 
take  the  bread  from  the  mouths  of  the  fishermen's  chil 
dren,  whereupon  Huntoon  sat  down  and  wept.  I  left 
him  to  procure  a  boat  and  stores,  which  was  accom 
plished  before  sunset.  Huntoon  was  presently  abroad 
on  the  buffet  stock.  I  carried  him  to  the  yawl  as  a  final 
package,  and  the  sun  went  down.  A  continual  astonish 
ment  to  me  was  the  different  entity  that  was  Huntoon, 
fallen.  As  we  set  sail  in  the  dusk,  the  vastness  of  the 
sea  and  the  world  in  general,  appeared  to  me  in  a  con 
ception  more  expanded  than  ever  before. 

I  could  not  have  dropped  into  this  venture  had  it 
not  been  for  Yarbin's  words  of  the  morning  about  reach 
ing  Romany's  outposts.  It  is  true,  however,  that 
Huntoon  seemed  to  have  a  definite  plan.  I  tried  him 
once  on  the  matter  of  getting  past  Orion  on  the  way 
to  the  mining  outfit,  and  his  mirth  was  unprecedented. 
That  was  what  he  did  best,  he  admitted. 

A  peculiar  night.  The  sea  was  calm  and  brilliant, 
the  moon  a  mighty  pearl.  The  forests  of  South  America 
were  a  black  ribbon  on  the'  left,  and  the  mountains  were 
contours  of  denser  night.  Huntoon  snored  in  a  change 
able  way  that  broke  monotony.  I  left  him  a  few  drinks 
for  morning,  and  the  rest  washed  overboard.  He  had 
spent  his  last  hours  of  consciousness  in  a  panic  lest  he 
should  run  out  of  liquor  while  on  board.  I  was  aware 
that  I  would  have  a  full-fledged  companion  only  when 
from  drouth  was  resurrected  the  other  Huntoon.  I  be 
lieved  in  him  for  a  fighter  and  a  friend. 

His  mutterings  were  better  than  many  men's  self- 
conscious  utterances.  He  had  been  vastly  around — had 
fought  everything,  and  alcohol  everywhere.  He  spoke 


Lost  Valley  177 

of  cavalry  outfits ;  Dannemora ;  once  he  spoke  of  Romany 
as  "  king  of  the  golden  river."  Toward  morning,  he 
began  to  come  in  closer  to  reality.  Bits  of  ballads  that 
I  knew,  and  some  that  I  did  not,  arose  to  his  lips, — and 
all  had  the  color  of  sea  and  plain  and  mountain  and 
wild  women  and  poor  suffering  gamesters  of  men.  Not 
once  did  he  mention  Jane  Forbes,  nor  China.  Those 
meant  home  to  him,  belonged  to  the  other  Huntoon. 
Now  he  was  abroad  among  his  services.  I  saw  his 
ideals  (boyish  ideals,  but  how  few  men  outgrow  them)  : 
that  a  man  may  be  afraid  of  anything  but  fear;  that 
nothing  is  fatal  but  being  a  coward,  and  nothing  so  fine 
as  being  "  there  at  the  pinch."  So  long  as  a  man 
sticks  to  men,  these  ideals  will  do,  but  when  he  loves 
a  woman,  they  sink  back  into  the  sophomoric  stage. 
There  is  a  finer  chivalry  than  we  can  ever  know  alone 
with  men.  .  .  .  Poor  Huntoon — his  former  girls  were 
just  faces,  faces  which  meant  ports  and  houses  he 
could  never  find  again  in  daylight — a  motley  of  mem 
ories,  like  a  boy's  punishments,  to  laugh  at  when  the 
lessons  are  learned  and  the  pain  is  far  behind.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  sat  up.  It  was  after  midnight,  and  I  dealt 
him  out  a  cracker,  a  bit  of  cheese  and  a  dried  fish,  to 
take  with  his  series  of  drinks.  The  food  slowed  him 
up,  as  it  always  does.  ...  I  ventured  to  remark  that 
he  had  been  a  bit  jaunty  in  the  evening,  and  had  wasted 
a  lot  of  liquor.  Had  he  not  better  begin  to  retrench 
on  the  little  that  was  left?  He  stopped  his  singing, 
to  become  ill.  I  assured  him  he  had  been  all  right 
— not  rough,  nor  a  bore. 

He  went  off  his  head  at  this,  and  presently  nego 
tiated  a  stunner.  Pieced  together  from  his  rambling, 
I  drew  that  he  had  wearied  of  waiting  in  Libertad  and 
had  tried  to  get  downjnto  the  valley  through  the  land- 
12 


178  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

lines,  running  afoul  naturally  of  Orion's  sentries.  Ex 
actly  what  happened  I  did  not  learn,  but  he  had  made 
thrillingly  good  as  a  soldier  and  now  he  was  embarked 
upon  a  certain  mission  to  the  Old  Master. 

This  much  represented  hours  of  listening.  Stow 
away,  castaway,  and  other  marine  memories  enlivened 
a  monologue  that  had  to  do  with  lavender  gloves,  barrel 
houses,  the  wide  out-doors,  and  girls  who  love  a  sailor. 
.  .  .  Even  in  Liu  chuan,  I  had  seen  in  the  remittance- 
man  a  trained  soldier.  Doubtless  Orion  had  perceived 
the  like.  Such  men  are  at  a  premium  in  the  gold  coun 
tries,  where  miners  are  many,  but  leaders  of  men  few. 

I  held  the  tiller  and  reflected  upon  the  mystery  of 
life,  as  the  great  equatorial  day  broke.  The  mountains 
rolled  up  in  the  east,  the  shore  was  edged  with  dazzling 
lights  where  the  morning  sun  fell  upon  the  breaking 
waves;  the  sea  swung  in  a  slow  rhythmic  breathing, 
changed  from  deep  blue  to  radiant  living  green — and 
before  me  was  Huntoon,  shaking,  burnt-out,  whipped, — 
but  on  a  mission,  certainly  not  of  mercy  to  the  father 
of  the  woman  who  was  great  to  me — great  like  the  day 
and  the  ocean  and  the  Continent.  And  this  was  a 
strange  Huntoon — not  at  all  the  man  who  had  tried  to 
be  good  because  Jane  Forbes  was  at  hand. 

He  opened  his  eyes  again,  regarded  me  and  the 
morning.  Then  he  succeeded  in  mastering  another 
"  slug."  I  knew  what  was  passing  in  his  mind ;  that 
he  must  face  a  day,  comparatively  drinkless,  a  day  of 
terrific  heat  and  labor ;  that  he  wished  he  had  not  awak 
ened  at  all.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  gave  up. 

"You'll  be  all  right,"  I  said.  "Just  stay  convales 
cent  like  this,  and  we'll  make  the  mining  camp  in  order. 
...  By  the  way,  how  far  was  it  from  where  I  met 
you?" 


Lost  Valley  179 

"  How  long  have  we  been  sailing  ?  " 

"  About  twelve  hours." 

"  Two  miles  an  hour  at  least,"  he  muttered. 

He  turned  about  with  a  groan  and  squinted  at  the 
shore-line  southward.  I  had  kept  the  yawl  a  mile  or 
so  off  the  beach,  to  meet  a  point  ahead  that  had  been 
eminent  since  the  dawn. 

"  Hell,"  he  said,  "  that  must  be  Romany's  headland. 
We  go  in  the  canyon  there." 

He  helped  himself  to  further  stimulant,  and  added 
with  a  ghastly  smile :  "  You  say,  I  didn't  get  up  to 
take  my  trick  at  the  wheel  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  call  you.  I  could  hear  that  you  needed 
rest.  You  weren't  a  bit  monotonous.  You'd  wind  up 
and  then  run  down,  and  every  little  while  break  a 
spring.  It  couldn't  have  been  the  main-spring " 

"  Did  I  tell  you — did  I  undertake  to  show  you  any 
documents  from  my  past,  Ryerson  ? "  he  asked  with 
apprehension. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  readily  enough,  "  but  it  was  rather 
deep  for  me.  Have  you  ever  been  a  Dervish  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  sadly. 

"  Or  a  Dragoman  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  they  wouldn't  let  me  in." 

"  You  didn't  mention  either  of  those,"  I  said,  "  but 
nearly  everything  else " 

"  Dervishes  are  born,  not  made,"  he  mumbled. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  get  your  past  in  some 
sore  of  mental  shape  best  by  a  process  of  elimination." 

"  I  didn't  take  you  for  a  fool  any  time — did  I  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Not  in  the  least " 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.    Did  I  cry?  " 

"Not  in  the  night " 


180  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"That  was  fine  of  me.  I  suppose  I  revealed  that 
I  had  a  mother  once  ?  " 

"  No,  Huntoon.    I  had  to  hypothecate " 

"Are  you  an  old  hand  at  hyp ?  I'll  have  to 

have  a  notch  more  steam  on  that " 

"  You  see,  the  night  was  calm.  I  crept  off  shore  a  bit 
to  keep  away  from  the  mosquitoes.  It  was  so  very  still 
and  fine — I  had  time  to  put  two  and  two  together " 

He  winced.  "  How  many  services  did  I  say  I  had 
soldiered  in  ?  " 

"  I  can't  recall " 

"  Canadian  Mounted  Police — for  instance  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  see,  I'm  not  naturally  a  liar.  I  never  served 
with  those  Johnnies." 

I  didn't  open  the  main  trend,  meaning  to  get  him 
straightened  out  first.  An  hour  afterward  we  could  see 
the  mouth  of  the  Calderon  canyon,  low  on  the  left  where 
Orion's  soldiers  lay,  and  the  lofty  naked  promontory 
like  a  great  arrow-head,  which  the  miners  were  said  to 
hold. 

"  They  both  see  us,"  said  Huntoon  softly. 

"  Why  not  make  the  point  of  the  headland  ?  "  I  asked 
excitedly,  as  Huntoon  steered  for  the  centre  of  the 
canyon. 

"  It  would  look  like  a  frame-up  to  the  miners," 
Huntoon  replied.  "  Orion's  got  boats  and  is  supposed 
to  stop  that  sort  of  thing  in  little  craft.  .  .  .  We've  got 
to  get  properly  fired  at  by  the  party  on  the  left,  and  make 
the  landing  inside  where  climbing  is  easy." 

I  offered  no  comment  in  this  deep-sea  business.  Ten 
minutes  afterward,  with  his  back  to  the  headland, 
Huntoon  performed  close  to  his  chest  a  swift  bit  of  wig- 


Lost  Valley  181 

wagging  with  a  red  square  of  cloth.  Firing  at  us  began 
from  Orion's  concealed  position.  Our  yawl  was  crowded 
over  toward  the  miners'  side.  In  a  few  moments,  to 
all  intents,  the  native  riflemen  went  back  to  sleep. 

"  You  do  the  talking,"  said  Huntoon,  as  the  yawl  was 
made  fast.  We  were  in  still  water  among  the  rocks  at 
the  foot  of  the  steep  slopes,  just  behind  the  barb  of 
the  massive  arrow-head. 


THAT  white  hot  day — my  eyes  sting  with  weariness 
to  recall  the  intensity  of  light  upon  the  water.  Huntoon's 
tortured  eyes  and  red  throbbing  throat  frightened  me, 
in  that  long  steep  climb  to  the  promontory,  Romany's 
party  waiting  above.  His  veins  were  filled  with  hell's 
heat  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  day.  It  is  true 
there  was  much  to  settle  with  Huntoon.  The  mock 
volley  from  Orion  stood  out  with  queer  effrontery  in 
my  mind.  I  had  not  come  to  Tropicania  to  help  a  spy 
in.  ...  I  offered  to  take  his  saddle-bags  from  him,  but 
the  mere  thought  threw  him  into  a  rage. 

A  fat  brown  man,  past  middle-age,  in  uniform  once 
white,  and  wearing  white  mustaches  with  true  military 
flare,  appeared  to  be  in  charge  of  the  group  on  the 
eminence.  I  made  known  to  the  soldier  that  I  had  a 
message  from  the  States  for  Nicholas  Romany.  The 
result  was  not  immediate.  This  blend  of  Spanish  and 
Indian  proved  to  be  Colonel  Viringhy,  in  charge  of  the 
defense  at  the  headland.  He  asked  wide  questions. 

Forty  or  fifty  white  men  seemed  enough  to  hold  the 
position.  These  were  recruited  from  all  nationalities  of 
Europe  with  a  peppering  of  Americans.  ...  A  pair  of 
mules  and  a  mounted  escort  of  two  soldiers  were  pres- 


182  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

ently  ready  to  take  us  into  the  valley.  Colonel  Viringhy 
indulged  us  with  the  information  that  the  old  Master 
had  slept  at  the  Headland,  but  had  ridden  back  to  the 
valley,  an  hour  before.  We  were  then  dispatched,  with 
imprecations. 

"  Cheerful  old  Aztec,"  Huntoon  muttered  hoarsely. 

He  had  taken  a  big  drink  of  water.  After  we  crossed 
the  narrow  throat  of  the  arrow-head  (behind  the  barb 
where  we  had  climbed),  I  produced  a  stimulant  from 
my  saddle-bags.  It  was  an  angel's  visit  to  Huntoon. 
He  burst  into  a  profuse  sweat  a  little  afterward,  and  I 
felt  he  would  be  more  himself  to-morrow. 

And  now  at  the  risk  of  appearing  too  conscientious, 
I  must  try  to  sketch  the  topography  of  this  wild  land 
from  the  Headland  to  the  valley.  Skip  this,  as  Bulwer 
would  say  in  a  chapter-head,  if  you  wish  to  misunder 
stand  all  that  follows. 

The  deep  gorge  of  the  Calderon  emptying  into  the 
Pacific  and  running  back  ten  miles,  is  a  gullet  to  the 
stomach-shaped  valley  of  Tropicania.  The  valley,  in 
fact,  is  but  a  widening  of  the  tube,  which  narrows  again 
into  an  impassable  canyon. 

The  mean  height  of  the  Headland  was  six  hundred 
feet  from  the  water.  It  was  unscalable,  except  at  two 
points,  behind  the  barb  where  we  had  climbed,  and  at 
the  extreme  tip  where  I  had  called  upon  Huntoon  to 
make  the  landing.  The  narrow  neck  behind  the  arrow 
head  (which  Huntoon  and  I  had  just  crossed),  was 
called  the  Causeway,  and  from  then  on  to  the  valley, 
the  trail  was  shelved  along  the  southern  wall  of  the 
Canyon. 

The  distance  across  the  Calderon  gorge  at  the  mouth 
was  about  four  hundred  feet,  but  Orion's  point  of  land 


Lost  Valley  183 

did  not  protrude  so  far  into  the  sea,  and  was  less  than 
half  as  high  as  the  Headland. 

Imposing  as  was  this  promontory,  it  was  but  the 
first  step  from  the  sea  to  the  great  mountains — a  block 
to  the  attainment  of  the  unattainable.  Above  the  gorge 
trail,  immediately  after  the  passage  of  the  Causeway, 
began  to  rise  the  greatest  range  on  the  Continent,  abso 
lutely  impassable — a  chaos  which  gripped  the  imagina 
tion.  The  southern  wall  of  the  canyon  was  formed 
from  these  huge  masses  of  earth  and  rock,  stretching 
the  entire  ten  miles  straight  in  to  Tropicania. 

The  shelved  trail  along  the  canyon  wall  had  been 
hewn  by  the  Quichuans  in  lost  ages.  Often  it  lay  a 
thousand  feet  above  the  river-bed,  frequently  sinking 
into  the  bloom  of  the  monster  escarpment,  but  never 
rising  out  of  the  chasm.  The  opposite  wall,  for  a  dis 
tance  of  seven  miles  in  from  the  Headland,  was  every 
where  lower  and  out  of  alignment.  At  this  point,  the 
shelf  widened  and  stood  directly  opposite  the  rim  of 
the  precipice  on  Orion's  side.  The  latter  was  over 
shot.  A  bridge  of  twenty-four  foot  span  was  sufficient 
to  connect  Tropicania  with  Libertad  and  the  North. 
This  narrowing  of  the  precipice,  now  bridged,  alone 
connected  the  valley  with  Libertad  by  land.  It  can 
now  be  seen  that  even  if  Romany  lost  the  Headland,  all 
could  be  well  if  he  held  the  bridge. 

Before  his  dredging  machinery  was  installed  in  the 
river-bed  beyond,  the  old  Master  spent  a  fortnight  re 
placing  the  stationary  wooden  bridge  with  a  steel  jack- 
knife  structure,  which,  when  raised,  cut  off  the  valley 
from  the  world.  Here  also,  he  enlarged  the  shelf  by 
cutting  back  into  the  rock  and  established  his  military 
fortifications,  which  commanded  both  the  trail  from  the 


184  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Headland  and  the  road  to  Libertad,  stretching  away 
across  the  gorge. 

I  had  seen  that  an  inferior  force  with  ammunition 
was  capable  of  holding  both  ascents  to  the  Headland 
against  a  large  attack.  The  importance  of  that  position 
is  clear,  when  one  considers  that  a  good  sized  steamer 
could  come  into  the  jaws  of  the  canyon  and  unload. 

Huntoon  and  I,  with  the  escort,  reached  this  bridge, 
known  as  the  Pass,  in  mid-afternoon — and  rested  an 
hour.  My  friend  remarked  that  he  was  "  a  mighty 
sick  woman,"  but  his  next  words  showed  he  had  missed 
none  of  strategic  points  of  the  gold-hunters'  position: 

"  Romany  would  have  to  run  out  of  ammunition  to 
lose  the  Headland.  Even  then  he  could  retreat  to  this 
bridge,  yank  it  up,  and  defend  the  valley  with  snow 
balls." 

After  a  moment,  Huntoon  completed  the  picture: 
"  You  couldn't  get  a  water-bug  up  the  canyon  for  the 
rocks  and  rapids ;  and  you'd  have  to  be  an  eagle  in  the 
air  to  get  over  the  mountains." 

"  If  you'll  promise  not  to  lop  that  eyelid,  I'd  like  to 
ask  a  question,"  said  I. 

"  Don't  you  think  I'd  do  pretty  with  one  small  slug?  " 

I  produced,  for  he  was  running  on  very  short  steam. 

"  Now  you  put  your  shot,"  said  he. 

"  How  is  it  a  valley — if  there's  no  getting  down  into 
it  from  Libertad  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  been  there,  but  it  was  explained  to  me," 
he  said  carefully.  "  All  the  volleying  is  done  on  this 
side  of  the  river.  This  ledge  sinks  down  and  the  moun 
tains  drop  back  to  breathe  a  little.  But  the  wall  op 
posite  begins  to  do  business  where  this  leaves  off,  and 
shuts  off  Libertad  and  the  rest,  clear  around  to  the 


Lost  Valley  185 

narrowing  of  the  canyon  again,  by  a  sheer  thousand 
foot  slump.  There  isn't  any  ledge  trail  in  the  other 
canyon,  I'm  told,  when  it  tightens  up  again — just  rapids 
and  boulders  all  the  way  down  through  Peru  to  the 
Horn." 

I  wondered  if  Orion  had  given  him  this  clear  idea. 
I  couldn't  ask,  for  the  party  of  Pass  defenders  was  at 
hand. 

"  The  natives  call  the  valley  the  Cul-de-sac,  what 
ever  th'ell  that  is,"  Huntoon  added. 

"  You  shut  off  the  duodenum,"  said  I,  "  and  a  man's 
stomach  is  a  cul-de-sac" 

"  I'd  better  have  another  little  slug — to  be  sure  mine 
isn't,"  said  he. 

I  first  saw  Tropicania  an  hour  later  in  one  grand 
sweep  of  vision,  around  the  final  bend  of  the  descending 
trail.  The  far  side  of  the  valley  was  a  gigantic  wall, 
the  river  hugging  its  base;  and  away  in  the  distance, 
the  mountains  narrowed  together  to  form  the  chasm 
again.  It  was  as  Huntoon  had  said — our  ledge-trail 
dropped  down  to  the  river-bed  and  the  mountains  on 
the  right  hand,  drew  back  to  breathe  a  little.  This 
slope  formed  a  broad  glacis  on  which  the  mining  settle 
ment  had  recently  perched  itself  among  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  city  of  the  Incas. 

It  was  not  until  this  moment  that  I  fully  grasped 
the  importance  of  the  new  steel  draw-bridge  at  the 
Pass;  and  at  this  moment  Huntoon  scored  a  point  that 
was  to  live  in  my  mind  for  months. 

"  Only  the  Lord  of  Hosts  could  conceive  such  a  per 
fect  position — but  that's  its  trouble,"  he  remarked. 

"What's  that?"  I  asked,  sensing  the  big  difficulty 
without  grasping  it. 


186  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  How's  he  going  to  get  out  with  his  gold  ?  " 

"  He's  a  right  smart  man,"  I  said  weakly. 

"  It's  a  right  smart  fortress,"  Huntoon  answered. 

And  all  this  time  I  was  staring  down  into  Tropicania. 
A  strange  pastoral — such  was  the  view  to  my  eyes  in 
the  long  afternoon  shadows.  The  stamp  of  centuries 
was  upon  it, — save  for  the  mining  machinery,  the  dredge 
and  the  glistening  tin  roofs  which  were  new  as  Nome. 
The  rest  had  the  look  of  eternal  enduring — the  whitish 
face  of  the  far  canyon  wall,  and  the  gray  ruins  of  an 
ancient  city,  which  lay  like  a  stony  incrustation  upon 
the  green  slope  of  the  seaward  mountain-sides.  The 
stillness  of  rock  and  ruin,  the  darkening  river,  the  tem 
perature  which  seemed  almost  as  hot  as  the  human 
blood — all  had  an  unearthly  appeal  to  me,  so  that  for 
the  moment,  Mary  Romany's  father  and  his  gold  en 
deavor  had  a  little  and  laughable  look. 

.  .  .  Where  was  the  old  race  that  cut  the  ledge  and 
played  with  mighty  rocks  in  his  valley?  Was  there 
any  consciousness  left  of  it — a  thought,  or  an  eye  some 
where,  in  the  shade  of  the  ruins — to  laugh,  from  some 
view-point  beyond  the  reach  of  time,  at  these  modern 
galvanisms?  ...  In  this  queer  moment,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  there  was  nothing  worth  while  in  the  world 
but  loving  a  woman  well,  loving  the  children  she  might 
bring  to  the  world,  and  from  a  long  habit  of  loving — 
to  learn  at  the  last  to  love  all  men. 

.  .  .  And  thus  we  entered  the  valley,  Huntoon  speak 
ing  no  word  and  I  out  of  the  present,  world-straying, 
among  thoughts  too  big  for  me.  ...  I  heard  the  voices 
of  my  own  countrymen,  saw  the  few  natives  moving  to 
and  fro  bare-legged  and  hungry-looking,  a  strange  ashen 
texture  to  the  brown  of  their  faces — the  same  weathered 


Lost  Valley  187 

look  that  lay  upon  the  fallen  city.  ...  At  last  we  were 
among  the  ruins.  A  lean  giant  of  years  came  forth. 
His  was  an  imperator's  nose,  and  cheeks  that  were 
sunken  and  transparent.  His  dark  eyes  pierced  my 
mind — and  flitted  to  Huntoon.  He  spoke  to  our  escort, 
which  dissolved.  So  intensely  was  I  watching  the 
father  of  Mary  Romany,  that  I  did  not  comprehend  his 
words,  until  he  said  a  second  time: 
"  Come  in,  gentlemen." 


THE  old  Master  was  not  as  I  had  pictured  him.  .  .  . 
The  profile  which  had  passed  the  door  of  the  Inter 
national  music- room  at  Hong  Kong;  and  the  gigantic 
rifleman  in  the  prow  of  the  junk  before  Liu  chuan 
had  made  a  different  image.  The  lion  was  gentle; 
the  eagle,  low-voiced.  All  the  hints  of  character  from 
his  daughter  had  not  given  me  a  remote  suggestion  of 
this  gentleness  and  forbearance;  this  eager  listening  of 
an  elder,  to  a  young  man's  restless  story. 

I  had  looked  for  a  man  with  the  hard  taint  of  gold 
upon  him — a  man  who  had  hungered  and  thirsted,  fought 
and  contrived  for  gold,  with  such  passion  that  he  had 
desolated  the  hearts  of  a  woman  and  child.  It  is  true, 
some  inner  devil  had  kept  him  abroad  in  the  rrfck  of  new 
gold  lands,  but  the  finer  spirit  of  the  man  was  not  dead. 
I  tried  to  hold  the  thought  that  there  must  be  something 
of  truth  in  the  old  picture  as  well  as  the  new. 

.  .  .  He  was  glad  to  find  me  well  again.  That  was 
the  nearest  approach  to  Liu  chuan  at  first,  and  I  was 
grateful.  He  was  older  and  whiter  than  I  had  believed. 
.  .  .  He  was  glad  we  had  come.  There  was  much  to 


188  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

do.  His  was  an  extraordinary  but  lonely  service.  He 
remembered  seeing  Huntoon  in  China,  and  smiled  at 
mention  of  the  mines  up  the  River. 

"  I  did  well,  not  to  go  back,"  he  added.  "  There 
was  a  fortune  in  Hsi  tin  lin — but  a  greater  one  here. 
It  won't  be  safe  for  whites  so  deep  in  China  for  a  long 
time.  White  men  have  given  China  the  worst  of  it 
too  many  times.  When  the  war  popped  up,  I  felt  greatly 
in  luck  that  my  big  machinery  investment  hadn't  been 
installed  up  the  river.  I  have  known  of  this  valley  for 
years.  I  was  fortunate  to  land  here  all  in  one  ship 
load.  We  were  more  or  less  established  before  Ecuador 
or  Peru  knew  what  was  on.  The  steel  draw-bridge 
was  over  the  canyon  before  we  really  stopped  to  cook 
coffee " 

Thus  he  talked,  lightly — apparently  withholding  no 
fact  that  would  build  a  picture,  and  seeming  to  have 
not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  our  fidelity  to  his  cause. 
And  this  was  a  man  who  throughout  a  long  life  ha'd 
had  every  chance  to  observe  the  deviltry  and  chicanery 
of  human  dealings.  Moreover,  he  had  pumped  four 
rifle-balls  into  my  body,  and  had  known  Huntoon  for  a 
remittance  man  in  China.  The  latter  was  shattered  at 
this  moment,  his  ego  whipped  in  the  direct  and  finished 
fashion  that  alcohol  manages  in  reaction. 

Food  was  brought  of  the  best.  Her  father  poured 
wine  for  us.  As  the  moments  drew  on,  his  trust  and 
a  certain  warming  culture  was  more  and  more  evidenced 
— a  culture  rarely  encountered  out  on  the  far  chances. 
.  .  .  Huntoon  was  as  deeply  appealed  to  as  I.  If,  in  a 
drunken  moment,  he  had  promised  Orion  to  commit 
depredations  upon  the  mining  outfit,  I  could  see  plainly 
that  there  was  a  moral  obstacle  in  the  way  of  a  host 


Lost  Valley  189 

who  graciously  served  him.  It  would  have  been  much 
simpler  for  Huntoon,  had  he  been  treated  like  a  stow 
away. 

The  settlement  was  a  stretch  of  canvas,  new  boards 
and  tin  roofs  along  the  Calderon;  its  main  street,  the 
golden  river;  its  centre  and  hall,  the  smoking  dredge. 
The  quarters  in  which  we  now  sat  were  high  on  the 
slopes,  and  well  apart  among  the  ruins.  Only  one  of 
these  structures  of  the  far  past  remained  in  a  state  of 
entire  preservation ;  and  this  was  the  largest  and  farthest 
from  the  river.  The  miners  had  dubbed  it  the  "  Vatican." 
The  old  Master  pointed  it  out  in  the  early  dusk,  as 
supper  was  being  brought. 

"  It's  backed  up  against  the  mountain,  as  you  see," 
he  explained.  "  In  fact,  the  back-wall  is  the  mountain 
itself.  The  walls  are  three  feet  thick,  and  could  with 
stand  any  mountain  gun  Orion  could  get  over  the  Pass. 
It's  our  arsenal  and  store-house.  If  we  lost  the  Pass, 
we  could  still  make  a  stand  in  the  Vatican — the  whole 
command.  I  built  a  new  iron  door.  That  was  the  task 
— after  the  draw-bridge." 

I  rather  resented  the  idea  of  being  penned,  even  in 
that  eminent  ruin,  protruding  from  the  base  of  the 
mountain. 

Headquarters  was  the  length  of  four  or  five  freight- 
cars  from  the  Vatican,  and  twice  the  distance  from 
the  river.  Only  the  walls  remained  of  this  latter  ruin. 
Canvas  and  tin  replaced  the  roof,  and  the  interior  was 
divided  into  two  large  compartments.  A  sizable  squad 
of  cavalry  might  have  halted  for  shelter  in  the  outer 
of  the  two  rooms  which  we  now  occupied.  The  opening 
faced  the  East — like  the  main  orifices  of  every  ruin  in 
the  valley.  The  floor  was  of  stone;  the  inner  surface 


190  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of  the  walls  had  been  worn  by  rains  and  winds  of 
ages  to  the  rock  itself.  In  the  rear  section  were  canvas 
partitions  and  cots  for  the  leader  and  others;  and  in 
the  front  was  the  office  and  dining-table.  At  the  door, 
we  sat  down  for  more  talk  after  supper.  I  recall  the 
red-lit  forges,  far  to  the  right,  working  overtime;  and 
how  the  voices  of  the  women  finally  reached  me — after 
the  deep  darkness. 

"  They're  at  Dole's  place — that  row  of  lights  in  the 
centre,"  Romany  nemarked.  "  You  never  hear,  and 
seldom  see  them  in  the  day  time.  A  man  named  Wesley 
runs  the  faro  lay-out  in  Dole's.  Seems  like  a  good 
gambler.  Dole  himself  is  a  rascal.  He  operates  the 
bar,  general  store,  tables  for  ladies  and  all  that.  I  took 
him  on  for  a  sutler,  and  will  have  to  squash  him  before 
long.  Dole  is  a  New  Yorker — calls  his  place  the  River 
side  Drive  Inn.  .  .  .  Strange  how  the  girls  came.  Wher 
ever  you  start  a  gold  camp — faro  and  girls  turn  up. 
This  party  came  down  from  Guayaquil  and  over  the 
Pass  before  the  bridge  was  finished — before  Orion 
organized  to  cut  us  off  from  Libertad." 

Romany  reflected  a  moment.  A  long  slender  oval  of 
golden  tobacco,  loosely  rolled  into  a  cheroot,  was  usually 
in  his  hand  or  mouth,  mostly  unlit.  I  found  these 
cheroots  superlative — aged,  yet  so  moist  that  they  would 
bend  double  without  breaking.  Romany  frequently 
chose  a  fresh  one,  lighting  it  but  once. 

"  The  flavor  is  Vuelta"  he  said,  "  but  the  yellow 
leaf,  I  suspect,  is  Chinese.  I  have  obtained  them  for 
years  from  an  Amsterdam  dealer,  who  does  not  tell  me. 
They  are  not  »so  carelessly  rolled  as  you  would  think. 
The  leaves  are  precisely  graded,  every  vein  running 
straight.  That's  why  they  burn.  There  must  be  a 


Lost  Valley  191 

dozen  thousand  in  the  Vatican — so  try  to  like  them, 
please." 

When  I  spoke  of  being  eager  to  strike  a  vein  of 
personal  usefulness  in  the  valley,  the  old  Master  smiled 
and  said  I  must  be  a  guest  first.  .  .  .  Huntoon  now  re 
ported  himself: 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  anything  except  soldier 
ing, — and  I  haven't  any  papers  as  to  that.  I've  been  a 
fool  in  garrison,  but  a  bit  of  a  success  afield.  I've 
been  drunk  in  a  good  many  places,  but  I  know  how  to 
get  a  fight  out  of  a  bunch  of  men,  up  to  a  battalion, — 
or  squadron,  as  we  call  it  in  the  cavalry." 

I  began  to  see  how  Huntoon  had  caught  on  with 
Orion.  A  trained  soldier  was  the  ranking  need  of  the 
land.  His  entirely  uncalled-for  confession  was  the  re 
sult  of  a  troubled  spirit,  and  the  increasing  fascination 
of  the  old  Master. 

"  If  it  were  absolutely  known  whether  Tropicania 
lay  in  Ecuador  or  Peru  there  wouldn't  be  a  fight  on," 
Romany  explained  presently.  "  Peru  says  the  Calderon 
marks  the  boundary ;  Ecuador  denies  this,  and  rather 
aggressively.  It's  a  remarkable  state  of  affairs.  The 
two  republics  have  been  grumbling  over  the  border 
line  since  the  beginning.  Years  ago  I  brought  knowl 
edge,  labor  and  ingenuity  to  bear — first  to  believe,  and 
then  to  prove,  that  there  was  gold  in  the  Calderon.  Up 
to  the  moment  of  discovery,  both  republics  treated  with 
me,  through  their  agents ;  and  all  our  dealings  were 
garnished  with  an  exquisite  Spanish  courtesy.  When  I 
planned  to  operate,  however,  this  proved  the  existence 
of  gold  in  the  river,  and  I  met  with  obstacles,  that 
finally  sent  me  to  China  in  despair.  This  time  I've  just 
slipped  in  and  taken  possession,  ordering  shooting  irons 


192  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

pound  for  pound  with  mining  machinery,  to  protect  the 
investment.  Of  course,  I  knew  the  position." 

Romany  laughed  a  little.  "  I  never  get  tired  observ 
ing  how  gold-news  travels,"  he  went  on.  "  This  is  a 
golden  age,  but  in  a  different  way  than  is  usually  meant. 
First  Libertad  jerked  up  when  the  word  passed  of  big 
gold  in  the  Calderon.  Then  Guayaquil  sent  down  pros 
pectors  and  gamblers  and  girls.  Up  the  Magdalena 
from  town  to  town  to  Barranquilla,  from  isle  to  isle, 
quickening  sleepy  Mexico  and  even  New  York  money 
interests  cabled.  Some  ugly  force  was  turned  upon 
these  mountains.  The  men  who  came  took  on  a  haggard, 
glaring  look.  Then  I  heard  first  from  Orion.  The  fact 
is,  Orion  is  a  free-lance,  just  as  I  am,  but  he  didn't 
discover  an  eldorado.  He  didn't  spend  a  fortune  for 
mining  machinery." 

Had  I  come  to  him,  a  stranger,  this  quiet  master 
of  the  gold  game,  I  think,  would  have  driven  straight 
to  my  heart  that  night.  The  years  had  taken  him  over 
the  rough  places.  He  had  no  hate  burning,  no  time  nor 
energy  to  spend  in  execrating  his  enemies.  He  placed 
the  situation,  which  seemed  to  me  most  dramatic  and 
absorbing,  with  the  calmness  of  a  man  in  any  office 
work.  Here  was  a  republic  on  either  flank,  and  while 
he  temporized  with  each  in  turn,  he  kept  the  dredge 
at  work. 

My  concentration  increased  as  he  continued : 

"  If  I  could  treat  finally  with  Orion,  with  Ecuador, 
or  with  Peru,  no  complication  could  set  in  to  render 
this  gold-fever  fatal.  I  could  even  pay  any  one  of  these 
powers,  what  would  seem  to  the  world  a  prohibitive 
rate  of  tribute.  The  Calderon  is  rich  enough  for  that, 
but  not  for  three  tributes.  Again,  if  I  badly  whipped 


Lost  Valley  193 

Orion,  it  would  only  hasten  the  organization  of  other 
forces.  Tropicania  is  placed  admirably  to  develop  into 
a  buffer  between  two  republics.  You  see,  we  have  a 
careful  game  to  play,  though  I  am  well  pleased  with 
the  way  it  is  unfolding.  There'll  be  another  fight  at 
the  Headland  presently.  .  .  ." 

Romany  tossed  a  cheroot  through  the  open  doorway. 
From  one  of  the  nearer  huts  below,  a  rousingly  good 
baritone  set  the  night  to  thrilling  with  Tosti's  Good-bye: 
"...  Lines  of  white  on  a  sullen  sea" 

"  That's  Maconachie — one  of  our  civil  engineers — a 
fine  young  Scotchman "  the  old  Master  whispered. 

The  whole  environment,  the  song,  the  torrid  night, 
the  glowing  stars,  the  thick  walls  of  stone,  the  slow 
soft  pressure  of  a  breeze  upon  the  candles,  the  thought 
of  two  animated  republics  and  their  ancient  exchange 
of  hatred,  the  river  flowing  silently  below, — all  blended 
into  a  mysterious  enticement  about  the  figure  of  this 
gaunt  elder,  with  the  kindly  voice  and  tolerant  mind. 
The  picture  challenged  me  in  a  way  I  can  hardly  ex 
press.  I  seemed  to  be  admitted  to  the  borders  of  the 
wonder-world  from  which  Mary  Romany  had  come. 

Did  I  imagine  a  queer  smile,  lingering  about  her 
father's  mouth,  as  he  spoke  of  the  other  headquarters 
at  the  Headland?  Guns  and  ammunition  pound  for 
pound  with  mining  machinery — why,  therefore  was  he 
watching  for  a  ship-load  of  ammunition?  Was  he  not 
holding  Orion  at  the  Headland? 

I  thought  I  saw  it  clearly  now — the  old  fighter 
dividing  his  force,  one  part  to  watch  the  sea  and  to 
keep  the  main  force  of  the  enemy  there ;  another,  swiftly 
probing  for  gold  nuggets  in  the  stony  tissue  of  the 
Calderon,  and  a  secret  third  keeping  communications 
13 


194  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

open  with  Libertad — possibly  getting  the  gold  out.  A 
big  playful,  masterful  game,  this,  while  another  would 
have  been  at  blood-letting  with  his  own  and  the 
hostile  force.  And  now  every  day  was  a  fine  winning 
for  Romany.  .  .  . 

His  daughter's  lustre  was  upon  the  old  Master  for 
my  eyes.  I  saw  where  she  had  drawn  her  splendid 
capacity  to  wait.  I  was  glad  I  had  come,  glad  to  serve. 
Huntoon  was  stupefied,  not  with  wine  but  with  the 
quality  of  the  gamester  to  whom  he  had  come — from 
a  common  little  disturber  like  Orion. 

Romany  added :  "  There's  some  real  men  down  be 
low  on  the  river.  I  picked  a  boat-load  up  in  the  States. 
The  others  came  in  with  the  gold  craze,  and  of  course 
don't  mean  so  much  to  me.  But  these  of  the  original 
party  are  white  men,  who  have  staked  all  they  own  on 
this  venture  and  on  my  chance  to  win  against  big  odds. 
There  are  other  golden  rivers.  I  have  lost  many  times 
before.  I  won't  cut  my  throat  if  we  lose  the  Calderon 
and  the  dredge — but  these  few  white  men  don't  live  by 
ventures  as  I  do.  I  can't  bear  to  see  them  lose.  They're 
out  on  the  main  venture  of  their  lives — to  make  a  stake 
once  and  for  all. 

"  I  told  them  there'd  be  a  big  fight,  that  there  always 
is  with  raw  gold.  But  they  wouldn't  turn  back.  You'll 
see  them,  a  clean-jawed  lot  of  boys.  They've  stood  pat 
so  far,  sick  with  work  and  gold-fever;  wounds,  some  of 
them  have,  and  all  are  worn  down  with  the  tension  and 
the  pull  of  home.  .  .  .  Why,  many  a  woman  back  in  the 
States  is  planning  lace-curtains  and  carpets  and  cottages 
against  the  return  of  these  fellows " 

Huntoon  gulped  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  Looks  a  trifle  complicated  at  times,"  Romany  added 


Lost  Valley  195 

softly,  "  but  I  don't  think  it's  in  the  cards  for  us  to  lose 
this  trip.  .  .  .  I'll  give  you  bunks  in  here  to-night,  and 
we'll  get  together  on  the  main  trend  in  a  day  or  two." 

Presently,  he  called  his  factotum,  Leek,  who  took 
Huntoon  off  to  bed  in  the  adjoining  quarters.  .  .  .  We 
stood  together.  I'm  a  bit  over-size,  yet  the  old  Mister 
looked  down  at  me: 

"  And  so  you're  all  new  again  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  lucky  for  me.  Little  Mary  thinks  well  of 
you,  sir.  I  have  reason  to  respect  her  judgment.  It's 
even  a  bit  better  than  her  mother's,  I  think.  .  .  .  I'm 
glad  you've  turned  up.  I've  talked  a  lot  of  congestion 
out  of  my  head.  The  boys  leave  everything  to  me — so 
there  isn't  much  talking  here  in  the  valley.  .  .  .  Good 
night,  Ryerson." 

He  led  me  to  a  cot  apart  from  Huntoon's,  and  I  lay 
for  hours  under  the  mosquito  canopy,  thinking  in  the 
darkness  of  the  daughter,  the  father  and  the  Year. 


A  MAN'S  life  is  less  where  his  body  moves  than 
where  his  thoughts  are.  I  hungered  for  letters  from 
Mary  Romany  as  for  the  fulness  of  life;  and  this,  of 
course,  was  the  key  to  all  my  conjecturing,  as  to  whether 
Libertad  was  absolutely  cut  off  from  the  valley.  All 
the  crinkle  was  gone  from  the  tough  thin  sheets  that 
had  waited  for  me  in  Guayaquil — two  letters,  one  from 
Covent  and  one  from  New  York,  written  within  a  week 
after  my  departure.  I  had  hoped  that  her  father  would 
have  the  third  for  me.  As  I  lay  under  the  mosquito 
netting  that  first  night  and  the  h^urs  passed,  I  seemed 


196  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

farther  and  farther  from  resigning  myself  to  a  state  of 
calm  for  any  lengthy  period — with  letters  piling  up  in 
Libertad,  and  only  a  few  soldiers  of  this  Orion  person, 
to  prevent  their  delivery.  ...  It  was  close  to  daylight 
when  a  voice  challenged  the  watchman  at  the  door  of 
Headquarters.  The  old  Master  couldn't  have  been 
asleep,  for  he  was  on  his  feet  and  striking  a  match, 
before  the  challenger  was  admitted. 

"  Hello,  there,"  I  heard  him  say,  as  he  lit  a  cheroot. 
His  face  was  gaunt  and  gray  in  the  flare  of  the  match, 
but  there  was  a  flash  of  power  in  his  eyes  that  was  far 
from  sleep.  Then  the  lantern  flamed  and  I  saw  Santell 
— red  mouth,  black  wavy  hair,  a  light  rippling  laugh 
with  its  shock  of  emptiness,  and  a  blood-curdling  oath 
for  no  particular  reason.  ...  I  did  not  hear  the  news 
he  brought,  but  the  smoke  of  a  cigarette  floated  to  me, 
and  I  heard  him  dive,  fully  dressed,  into  a  cot.  Romany 
stood  by  the  lantern  for  many  minutes.  .  .  .  The  episode 
must  have  disordered  my  old  wakeful  trends  of  mind, 
for  there  is  a  blank  between  the  last  glimpse  of  the 
figure  in  the  lantern-light,  and  tjie  creak  of  the  dredge 
which  roused  me.  The  canvas  aftove  was  leaking  dawn. 

As  I  sat  up,  two  letters  fell  from  my  chest  to  the 
blanket — transcripts  from  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  the 
Lovely  Lady. 

The  sun  was  rising  through  the  impassable  gorge  at 
the  far  end  of  the  valley — a  spectacle  of  such  magnifi 
cence  that  a  man  must  awake  with  good  reigning  in 
his  soul  from  the  vista,  if  not  from  the  blessedness  of 
incomparable  correspondence.  All  the  reds  of  morning 
blent  their  inner  flames  and  intensified.  That  gorge 
which  men  could  not  enter,  was  a  portal  of  the  Gods. 


Lost  Valley  197 

And  down  among  the  last  shadows  of  the  night  on  the 
river,  the  men  of  Romany  were  already  toiling.  I  heard 
a  step  and  he  was  beside  me. 

"  This  being  alive  gets  rather  deep  at  times,"  he 
said  questioningly,  as  he  pointed  to  the  multiple  glory. 

I  was  startled  at  the  way  he  had  picked  up  my 
thought  and  given  it  to  me.  Then  I  said  I  would  stay, 
if  he  cared  to  arrange  a  regular  dawn-delivery  of  letters. 

"  It  will  be  some  time  before  I  can,"  he  laughed. 
"  There'll  be  a  fight  at  the  Headland  first,  but  we'll 
do  our  best  after  that,  Mr.  Ryerson." 

We  watched  the  river  activity  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  spoke  of  the  men  who  had  rushed  in  from 
the  nearer  towns  when  the  magic  word  had  gone  out 
from  Tropicania. 

"  They're  worth  knowing,"  he  said.  "  I  often  think 
they're  like  migratory  birds,  that  beat  themselves  to 
death  in  a  cage,  if  held  from  their  southern  flights. 
Certain  men  must  get  off  in  the  open  somewhere.  Back 
home  they  don't  belong  to  the  scheme  of  civilization 
at  all.  They've  already  enlisted  for  a  fresh  war  before 
any  mass-meetings  are  called  in  the  town-hall.  They're 
legging  it  frontier-ward,  picking  up  equipment  on  the 
way — by  the  time  the  more  stable  citizens  are  weighing 
chances  of  eventualities.  .  .  .  And  good  riddance  to  most 
any  community.  Yet  such  are  at  the  base  of  civiliza 
tion.  They  clear  the  reek  from  far  lands.  When  they 
pass  on  lawlessness  dies  out  with  them!  ...  A  particular 
type  of  the  man  I  mean — is  your  friend  Huntoon,  I 
take  it " 

He  had  drawn  a  trifle  closer,  and  I  imagine  there 
was  an  unusual  intensity  in  his  glance. 

"  There  are  two  Huntoons,"  said  I.     "  I  like  them 


198  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

both,  but  one  very  much.  I'm  waiting  for  him  to  come 
back." 

He  understood.  "  Such  men  aren't  worth  much  down 
on  the  dredge,  but  out  on  the  line  with  old  Viringhy — 
Huntoon  is  the  sort,  it  seems  to  me,  who  would  be 
there,  when  it  came  to  action " 

"  He's  proven  that  to  my  satisfaction,"  I  said.  "  Isn't 
Santell— that  kind  ?  " 

"  Poor  lad,  he's  only  happy  when  he  sees  a  good 
chance  to  get  himself  killed.  .  .  I've  always  remembered 
that  morning — how  you  crossed  the  river  for  him.  They 
would  have  had  him  but  for  you.  I  liked  that — more 
than  you  know." 

"  I  didn't  see  how  he  could  live " 

"  Nor  I,  at  first.  .  .  .  He's  apt  not  to  speak  of  it. 
You  won't  mind,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I'd  much  rather  he  wouldn't,"  said  I,  and  inquired 
how  many  men  were  in  the  valley. 

"  There  are  over  two  hundred  miners  below.  With 
Viringhy 's  force  and  the  garrisons  along  the  trail — 
about  three  hundred  in  all.  I  think  there's  a  fight  in 
nearly  every  man,"  he  added.  ..."  A  rifle  and  a  dozen 
rounds  of  ammunition — positively  no  mining  tool  is  so 
important." 

Huntoon  was  coming  toward  us.  Plainly  on  the 
gain  he  was. 

.  .  .  After  breakfast,  the  old  Master  led  us  through 
the  ruined  city.  Huntoon  was  quick  to  see  the  pos 
sibilities  for  pits  and  emplacements.  .  .  .  Two  machine- 
guns,  which  we  did  not  see,  but  which  Romany  com 
mented  on  in  blithe  fashion,  were  ready  to  command  the 
approaches  to  the  mines.  The  slopes  everywhere,  Hun 
toon  remarked,  should  be  ruffled  with  intrenchments. 


* 
Lost  Valley  199 

"  They  don't  breed  'em  down  here,  that  could  force 
a  couple  of  hundred  white  men  into  your  Vatican,"  he 
said.  "  That  is,  given  guns,  plenty  of  rounds  and  a 
system  of  rifle-pits." 

Romany  appeared  absorbed  in  modern  defensive  pos 
sibilities. 

"  I'd  like  to  spend  a  day  here,  and  show  you  the 
arsenal  in  the  Vatican,"  he  said.  "  But  I'm  off  for  the 
Headland.  Perhaps  you  would  ride  with  me." 

Huntoon  nodded.  I  eagerly  assented.  .  .  .  The  fourth 
of  the  party  was  Leek — whether  orderly,  armor-bearer, 
personal  servant  or  partner,  I  was  unable  yet  to  make 
out.  He  might  have  been  just  American,  but  the 
tendency  of  my  mind  was  to  make  a  mystery  of  him. 
Leek  had  nothing  to  say,  external  to  the  day's  work, 
appeared  abroad  at  all  times,  and  second  in  swiftness 
only  to  Romany's  thought.  He  was  short,  forty  at  least, 
but  athletic.  His  face  was  intelligent,  if  inscrutable.  .  .  . 

We  had  traveled  leisurely  for  an  hour  and  a  half, 
and  the  Pass  was  behind,  when  Leek,  who  was  riding 
in  the  lead,  reined  up  and  raised  his  hand.  Directly 
as  the  ring  of  hoofs  subsided,  the  sound  of  firing  reached 
us  from  ahead.  The  look  of  Romany's  profile  was  a 
shock  to  me.  More  bloodless  than  ever,  it  had  become 
in  a  second  flinty — so  hard  it  seemed  a  stone  would 
glance  from  it,  leaving  no  mark.  Leek  held  his  mule 
stiff  in  her  tracks,  and  twisted  around,  watching  his 
chief  for  the  first  command. 

"  What  day  is  this  ?  "  Romany  asked  suddenly. 

Leek  answered. 

Huntoon  and  I  were  asked  to  stay  where  we  were. 
The  other  pair  spurred  out  of  ear-shot.  ...  It  occurred 
to  me  that  I  had  something  to  say  in  private  to  my 


200  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

companion  at  this  juncture,  which  Romany  had  chosen 
for  a  covered  conference  with  his  second.  I  swung  my 
mule  about  in  front  of  Huntoon,  so  that  my  back  was 
toward  the  two  below,  leaned  over  and  touched  his 
knee. 

"  Huntoon — what  have  you  got  on — with  that  other 
outfit?" 

He  looked  white  and  sick.  It  was  worse  than  I 
thought. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  the  Old  Man  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No."  " 

"Don't.  I'm  in  trouble— but  I'll  get  out.  ...  Oh, 
don't  worry  to-day.  I  won't  wobble  to-day " 

I  liked  his  look  when  he  said  that. 

"I've  got  to  think  a  bit— that's  all,"  he  added. 

This  sufficed.  Romany  beckoned.  .  .  .  Leek  passed 
as  we  spurred  forward.  He  did  not  appear  to  observe 
that  we  were  on  the  trail,  but  quickened  his  mule  back 
toward  the  settlement. 

"  If  it's  a  skirmish  down  on  the  shore,"  Romany  re- 
markedly  quietly,  as  we  joined  him,  "  it's  only  just 
begun,  or  Viringhy  would  have  a  courier  on  the  way 
back  to  us." 

He  had  hardly  finished  when  we  heard  the  drum 
of  hoofs,  and  a  running  mule  darted  around  a  bend  of 
the  trail  a  few  hundred  yards  ahead.  The  rider  was 
Santell. 

6 

"  I  DON'T  think  I  told  you,"  Romany  remarked  as 
the  flying  courier  neared,  "  that  Santell  is  second  in 
command  to  Viringhy." 

The   mule — I  learned   this   gray  brute   afterward — 


Lost  Valley  201 

had  gained  full  momentum,  and  had  lost  the  "  feel " 
of  the  bit.  It  was  like  trying  to  stop  a  locomotive  on 
a  greased  down-grade.  .  .  .  There  was  a  laugh  in  the 
spectacle — frail  feathery  Santell,  braced  back  and  saw 
ing,  his  woman's  jaw  set,  and  his  slender  arms,  bare 
to  the  white  of  the  arm-pits.  He  got  his  mount  down 
to  a  turning,  a  hundred  yards  past.  Huntoon  waited 
patiently.  .  .  .  The  curses  in  the  air  as  Santell  spurred 
his  beast  back,  were  startling  as  foulness  in  the  mouth 
of  a  child.  I  found  myself  thinking  he  couldn't  com 
prehend  what  he  said.  A  dissipated,  unshaven,  dare 
devil  face — but  feminine — a  high  queer  voice,  and  a 
fresh  red  mouth.  The  message  he  brought  was  but  a 
thin  shaving  of  substance  in  a  thick  layer  of  blasphemy : 
"  We  sighted  a  steamer  at  day-break.  Mile  off 
shore.  Orion  started  attack  ten  minutes  ago.  We  can 
hold  'em  off- 
Romany  checked  him.  We  four  moved  on  at  a  trot. 
I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  Santell.  He  saw  me, 
his  mouth  twitched,  and  he  looked  miserable.  Presently 
he  turned  to  Huntoon. 

"  Good  mule — four-mile  mule,"  he  confided.  "  Wound 
up  for  the  whole  run  to  the  valley,  you  see.  Hard  to 
stop  her  under  a  mile,  when  she  gets  going  like  that. 

You  have  to  talk  to  her " 

"  I   could   see  she  was  beginning  to  listen,   as   she 

went    by — ears    turned    right    back    toward    you " 

Huntoon  observed. 

Some  novel  ignition  had  fired  the  latter's  tempera 
ment.  Romany  glanced  at  him  from  time  to  time.  The 
day  grew  hotter  as  we  neared  the  sea  at  a  fast  trot. 
The  fierce  torrid  light  was  thrown  from  behind. 
Through  the  rift  of  the  gorge  at  last,  I  saw  the  Pacific. 


202  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

The  glare  was  blinding.  Firing  was  steady  ahead,  but 
not  thick.  I  wondered  if  Orion  were  trying  to  cut  off 
the  neck  of  the  Headland.  .  .  . 

I  appeared  to  be  the  only  member  of  the  quartet 
who  had  a  thought  of  the  personal  equation.  Romany 
was  reckoning  with  the  end  of  the  day  and  what  it 
would  bring.  Huntoon  was  uplifted  with  strange  anima 
tion  at  sound  of  the  shots.  Santell  leaned  forward  on 
his  gray  mount  and  seemed  to  regard  us  bashfully.  .  .  . 
The  truth  is  I  was  gun-shy  from  the  yellow  river. 

There  is  a  force  in  the  riding  of  four  men  into 
action — a  sort  of  elemental  driving  energy  enough  to 
carry  one  forward,  against  disinclination  far  greater 
than  mine.  It  must  be  so  many  times  when  men  ad 
vance  into  action.  With  Huntoon  it  was  different.  He 
was  shaky  still ;  his  canteen  was  full  of  water,  and  his 
head,  of  decent  resolutions.  Physically  he  was  in  the 
worst  possible  shape  for  a  display  of  nerve ;  yet  the 
firing  worked  upon  him  better  than  any  alcohol.  He 
loved  it — that  was  it. 

"  I'm  on  parole  to-day,"  he  whispered. 

I  laughed  at  him.  ...  His  talk  grew  unconnected: 

"  Services  as  usual  in  the  settlement  church  to-night. 
.  .  .  We  must  get  back  before  sun-down.  .  .  ." 

I  could  see  him  urging  the  mule  with  his  leg-muscles, 
although  Romany's  beast  fixed  the  pace,  and  Huntoon's 
would  have  held  it  with  a  slack  line. 

"  Sure — charge  a  nigger-works — that's  what  I  do 
best/'  he  laughed;  and  then  added  quietly  with  a  glance 
at  me :  "  But  I'm  a  non-combatant  to-day." 

Over  the  last  bend  in  the  shelving  trail  our  mules 
swung  to  the  Causeway ;  and  below  on  the  terrible  slope 
from  the  river  to  the  Headland  (behind  the  barb  of  the 


Lost  Valley  203 

arrow-head,  where  Huntoon  and  I  had  climbed),  I  saw 
the  white  puffs  of  Orion's  soldiers  among  the  rocks. 
This  narrow  stretch  of  the  trail,  approaching  the  Head 
land  from  Tropicania,  sagged  enough  to  be  exposed  to 
fire  from  the  opposite  cliffs.  Orion  was  sweeping  the 
Causeway  now  from  across  the  gorge,  while  he  sent 
his  forces  in  a  charge  up  the  slope. 

I  wish  I  could  suggest  the  tremendous  setting  of 
this  little  drama.  It  was  like  the  lofty  places  of  Wagner's 
music  in  the  immensity  of  it — gorge,  headland,  moun 
tain  and  sea.  .  .  .  The  shots  from  across  and  below  came 
to  my  ears  badly  out  of  time  and  tune.  The  attack 
was  half-hearted,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  the  scorn  of 
Huntoon  was  militant.  .  .  .  Orion  found  it  difficult  to 
drive  his  men  up  the  half-nude  slopes,  under  the  leis 
urely  fire  of  Viringhy  above.  I  rather  admired  the 
men.  Orion  was  not  leading  any  of  these  charges  in 
person;  and  it  was  he  who  had  the  fortune  to  win.  I'd 
have  needed  a  cell  and  a  year  to  make  Huntoon  see 
this. 

Already  I  heard  the  nasty  sound  of  steel  cutting  the 
air,  and  was  coughing  from  the  dust,  as  the  bullets 
splintered  the  rock.  Romany  bent  forward,  and  spurred 
his  mule  to  a  gallop.  Lean,  gray  and  old,  that  profile, 
all  but  the  eyes  that  flashed  piercingly  through  the 
shade  of  his  wide  Peruvian  hat. 

The  sound  of  a  slug  above  my  head  was  like  a 
curse — a  quick-growled  curse,  with  a  murderous  force 
behind  it.  I  dropped  forward  over  the  mule's  bristles. 
Santell  rode  lightly,  apparently  giving  no  thought  to 
the  gathering  fire  that  we  drew;  his  lips  parted,  his 
black  eyes  filled  with  a  softness  I  could  never  under 
stand — blana,  wide-open,  calm,  yet  some  hell  was  in 


204  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

them  which  I  divined,  though  I  could  not  utter.  Huntoon 
was  riding  as  if  up  and  down  in  front  of  a  red-hot 
battery,  his  face  flushed  with  excitement — queer, 
humorous  figures  of  speech  dropping  from  his  tongue. 
It  was  drink  to  him,  and  bread,  too.  And  now,  we 
four  were  half-way  across  the  Causeway  at  a  gallop, 
and  the  air  was  venomous  with  bullets.  It  seemed 
they  marked  me  off  as  a  knife-thrower  outlines  his 
accessory.  .  .  .  There  was  a  cheer  in  the  air,  and 
Viringhy's  soldiers  were  grinning  around  me,  before  I 
straightened  up  and  reined.  Looking  back,  I  saw 
Romany  and  old  Viringhy  of  the  white  moustache  dis 
appear  in  the  latter's  headquarters. 

The  steamer  that  had  caused  the  attack  was  now  a 
mile  off  shore,  straight  out,  trailing  her  plume  of  jet, 
but  making  no  change  in  course.  Sentries  were  stationed 
at  the  point  to  report  every  movement  of  the  trouble- 
making  vessel.  .  .  .  The  firing  kept  me  restless.  A  big 
gun  crashed  at  intervals,  followed  always  by  a  cheer 
from  Romany's  defenders. 

At  the  door-way  of  Headquarters,  a  steel  slug  drove 
into  the  masonry  a  foot  from  my  head,  and  filled  my 
eyes  with  rock-dust.  Wherever  I  moved  along  the  lines, 
my  presence  appeared  to  be  the  signal  for  fresh  anima 
tion  among  Orion's  sharp-shooters.  I  had  little  sympathy 
for  Huntoon's  ill-concealed  pleasure  in  these  activities. 
I  liked  not  the  fear  of  being  cut  off  by  a  successful 
charge' of  the  enemy  up  the  slope.  The  Causeway,  to 
me,  was  like  a  throat  that  was  being  strangled. 

It  was  too  hot  for  tobacco.  There  was  a  binding 
regulation  on  the  drinking  supply,  and  it  actually  ap 
peared  as  if  Viringhy's  soldiers  had  to  have  permission 
every  time  they  fired  a  shot.  A  pressure  was  brought 


Lost  Valley  205 

to  bear  on  this  matter  which  filled  me  with  a  deep  and 
morbid  terror.  It  was  a  sure-thing  sort  of  defense,  a 
reliance  almost  entirely  upon  the  position.  One  of  two 
things  was  obvious:  either  Romany  was  excessively 
delicate  about  decreasing  Orion's  force,  or  else  he 
thought  more  of  Springfield  and  Remington  cartridges 
than  he  did  of  nuggets  from  the  Rio  Calderon.  The 
game  was  not  my  specialty.  Nothing  about  it  appealed 
to  me  as  a  pastime  that  I  should  seek  with  passion  on 
a  second  occasion.  .  .  . 

The  big  gun  crashed  again.  Evidently,  thought  I, 
Romany  has  battery-fodder,  other  than  rifle-cartridges 
this  morning.  The  cheer  died  away — and  was  raised 
over  more.  I  wondered  what  the  big  gun  had  struck  this 
time.  In  any  event,  Orion  wasn't  stopped — for  a  cry 
began  at  one  end  of  the  slope,  and  sped  like  fire  along 
his  lines.  I  glanced  out  at  sea  and  beheld  the  steamer. 
She  had  not  turned  in,  but  was  straight  off  the  Point. 
Obviously,  this  was  Orion's  cue  for  his  charge. 

Old  Viringhy  had  shot  a  skirmish  line  out  on  the 
Causeway.  The  intrenchments  that  rimmed  the  Head 
land  were  manned ;  and  queerly  enough,  a  certain  anima 
tion  replenished  me  and  eased  the  tension  that  had  worn 
my  nerves  thin.  I  saw  Orion's  soldiers  forming  to 
charge — companies  of  his  men  queerly  knotted,  among 
the  rocks  below.  Viringhy  would  centre  his  fire  upon 
them;  a  few  fallen  would  slow  the  charge,  as  if  their 
bodies  were  tied  to  the  others;  another  careful  volley; 
and  the  knots  gave  way.  This  was  the  routine. 

The  main  force  of  Orion's  infantry  held  the  op 
posite  cliff  and  fired  at  the  Causeway  line  and  the  ex 
posed  bodies  in  our  intrenchments.  ...  A  sudden  crash 
of  the  big  gun  at  the  left  shook  the  very  centres  of  my 


206  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

life.  In  a  kind  of  fascination  I  had  wandered  close  to 
the  hooded  part  of  the  cliff  where  Romany's  artillery 
had  held  forth  all  that  day. 

A  strangely  familiar  smell  was  in  the  air.  I  was 
compelled  by  the  idea  of  peering  in  upon  that  tireless, 
impregnable  gunner  under  the  hood  of  rock.  Around 
the  works  I  made  my  way.  Romany's  soldiers,  hoarse 
with  thirst,  lay  in  the  trenches.  Their  humor  was  dry 
and  biting.  They  were  attentive  but  not  rushed.  To 
save  cartridges  was  the  order — and  they  chafed  when 
opportunities  came  and  went.  None  minded  me,  and 
I  crawled  along  the  edge  to  the  crevasse  where  the 
gunner  was  stationed.  .  .  .  And  now  the  familiar  odor 
moved  my  brain  with  boyhood  memories,  and  the  rock 
was  drifted  with  burnt  paper — a  red  and  white  litter 
and  smudges  of  splintered  wadding.  .  .  . 

Just  at  this  instant  Santell  corralled  me  roughly.  His 
face  was  evil,  as  he  commanded  me  back  to  Head 
quarters.  But  I  had  seen.  In  the  ledge  of  rock  with  a 
sputtering  fuse,  set  a  giant  fire-cracker — lodged  in  the 
crevasse  where  it  would  reverberate  with  compounded 
effect. 

"  My  God,"  I  muttered,  "  this  is  pure  morality." 

But  I  had  not  pleased  Romany  by  my  enterprise. 
Huntoon's  every  movement  was  followed  by  a  sentry. 
.  .  .  The  routine  of  breaking  Orion's  charges  con 
tinued;  and  yet  the  face  of  Romany  was  gray  with 
anxiety,  and  often  he  stared  back  to  the  sea,  where 
the  steamer  moved  on  almost  imperceptibly,  her  smoke 
trailing  off  to  the  north.  She  was  slow  and  heavily 
laden.  .  .  .  The  Chief  made  no  comment,  as  I  followed 
Santell  back.  Viringhy  hurried  up  to  report  some  fresh 
pressure  on  the  Causeway.  Romany  drew  him  into 


Lost  Valley  207 

Headquarters.  .  .  .  Huntoon  happened  to  pass  the  door 
just-  as  Viringhy  rushed  forth  again ;  and  the  two  col 
lided.  The  old  soldier  snarled  something  in  Spanish 
to  the  effect  that  passengers  invariably  were  in  the  way 
— and  never  could  do  their  dreaming  at  night. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  the  dinner-gong,  Colonel," 
Huntoon  said  scornfully. 

And  now  Santell,  striding  jauntily  ahead  of  me, 
began  a  report  in  his  thin  voice — but  was  silenced  by 
Romany.  ...  I  remember  thinking  how  definitely  Hun 
toon  and  I  had  hampered  the  old  Master.  Most  men 
would  have  had  us  in  irons.  .  .  . 

Just  at  this  instant  I  saw  a  quick  change  in  the 
back  of  Santell's  neck — as  if  a  blur  of  red  had  crossed 
my  eyes.  He  had  turned  into  Headquarters  behind 
Romany.  The  boy's  bare  slim  arms  lifted,  and  he 
toppled  over  backward  at  my  feet.  .  .  .  And  now  I  was 
looking  down  at  his  face.  His  large  eyes  had  darkened, 
some  deep  staring  light  far  within,  but  all  soft  and 
expressionless  about.  The  glare  had  softened.  They 
roved  to  me — to  Huntoon — to  Romany — but  could  not 
hold,  nor  see.  .  .  .  There  was  a  quiver  of  infinite  pathos 
about  the  girl-mouth,  and  then  I  heard — directed  to  no 
one  in  particular — words  which  made  me  understand  he 
was  going  out  in  the  arms  of  his  father. 

Romany  held  the  frail  figure  so — long  after  it  had 
divided. 


ONE  thing  was  certain  to  me — Romany  would  not 
have  asked  us  to  ride  to  the  Headland  that  day,  if  he 
had  expected  the  fight.  The  slow  steamer  that  caused 
it,  had  gone  on  about  her  business  and  Orion  had  with- 


208  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

drawn  his  lines,  convinced  at  last  that  the  ship  had  no 
cargo  for  Romany. 

The  old  Master,  Huntoon  and  I,  were  riding  back 
toward  the  valley  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  former 
had  not  spoken  since  he  waved  an  adios  to  Viringhy 
across  the  Causeway,  a  half-hour  before.  I  alone  knew 
how  the  death  of  Santell  had  struck  him.  Even  Mary 
Romany  couldn't  know  that.  Her  father,  knew  also 
that  I  had  heard  those  last  words,  but  not  that  I  had 
looked  under  the  hood  of  rock  where  the  paper  cannons 
were  celebrated.  Santell  had  not  been  given  time  to 
tell  him.  I  was  glad  Huntoon  had  not  seen  that. 

My  heart  was  deeply  stirred.  And  Santell  had 
brought  her  letters  in  the  night.  .  .  .  We  were  nearing 
the  Pass,  making  the  last  up-grade  through  the  dark 
ening  gorge.  I  started,  when  the  old  Master  spoke: 

"  You  see  how  easily  Orion  is  held  off,"  he  said 
wearily. 

Huntoon  spoke  up.  "  That  Headland  wasn't  meant 
to  be  taken " 

"  A  fortress  not  built  by  hands,"  said  Romany. 

I  knew  it  could  be  taken.  If  the  ship  had  turned 
in  toward  the  Promontory,  I  believed  Orion  could  have 
forced  a  command  up  to  the  Causeway  this  very  day, 
against  the  pitifully  diminished  fire  of  Romany's  men. 
Yet  the  old  Lion-heart  kept  up  his  bluff: 

"  The  fact  is,  I  don't  dare  to  whip  Orion.  My  only 
business  is  to  hold  what  I  have,  and  keep  him  thinking  he 
can  take  the  Headland  at  the  proper  time.  .  .  .  My  poor 
Santell — his  room  was  ready."  .  .  .  He  glanced  at  me. 

Four  or  five  rifles  cracked,  slightly  below  us  across 
the  canyon — from  the  thick  growths  at  the  very  edge 
of  the  precipice. 


Lost  Valley  209 

"  Run  for  it,"  Romany  commanded,  leaning  forward 
and  rowelling  his  mount.  We  thundered  down  the  rocky 
slope,  the  rifles  emptying  their  magazines  behind. 

"  That  was  damned  clever  of  Orion,"  Romany  re 
marked  faintly,  as  we  turned  past  the  valley  outposts. 
"  Lucky  he  didn't  get  one  of  you  fellows.  Orion  wants 
me  badly.  It  was  meant  for  me — this  firing — and  so  was 

the  slug  that  got  poor  Santell  to-day "  He  spoke 

in  a  wheezy  way  and  jerkily,  as  one  fighting  for  air. 

"  But  you're  hit "  I  cried,  grasping  his  elbow. 

"  I  guess  I  am,"  he  said  quietly,  "  but  I  can't  be 
hard-hit — didn't  even  knock  me  out  of  the  saddle.  It's 
in  the  shoulder  somewhere,  I  think.  ...  I  can  make 
Headquarters  all  right." 

And  now,  whether  it  was  meant  or  not  (I  could 
not  tell  at  the  moment),  Huntoon  had  uncovered — 
ridden  around  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  old  Master, 
and  uncovered.  It  was  rather  dark  for  me  to  study 
my  friend's  face.  Thus  we  rode  to  the  Pass  and  down 
the  long  dark  grade  to  the  valley. 

Romany  had  been  struck  in  the  shoulder  by  a  steel 
bullet,  which  luckily  had  not  stopped  there.  His  left 
arm  was  useless,  but  no  bone  was  splintered.  Jason, 
the  young  surgeon  of  the  settlement,  took  care  of  the 
wound.  That  night  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  Romany's  cot. 
We  whispered  long. 

"  It  was  clever  of  him — that  assassination  party," 
he  mused.  "  Orion  understands  that  one  tired  old  man 
holds  this  outfit  together." 

He  was  greatly  suffering. 

"  It's  a  peculiar  thing "  he  said,  and  there  was 

a  long  silence.  Through  the  dusk  of  the  candles  I  saw 
the  grip  of  pain  tighten  and  relax.  We  were  thinking 
14 


210  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of  the  death  of  Santell,  and  of  the  woman  who  would 
never  know. 

"  You  were  there  in  the  pinch  at  Liu  chuan,"  he 
said  finally.  "  You  were  there  at  the  end  this  morning 
— and  you  have  come  from  the  little  girl.  .  .  .  You  really 
ought  to  be  next  to  me  here.  I  need  you,  Mr.  Ryerson 
— but  what's  this  talk  of  the  men  about  Huntoon?  The 
men  are  afraid  of  Huntoon.  He  was  with  Orion — a 
week  ago " 

I  told  him  Huntoon  had  reached  Libertad  two  weeks 
before  me;  that  he  had  gone  after  the  rum.  In  trying 
to  reach  Tropicania  he  had  been  taken  into  camp  by 
Orion,  who  spotted  him  for  a  good  soldier  out  of  a 
berth.  I  explained  my  idea — that  Huntoon  had  made 
certain  promises  in  the  glibness  of  alcoholic  poisoning, 
in  order  to  re-connect  with  me.  I  told  the  good  of 
Huntoon  in  hard  unsentimental  English;  of  our  talk 
on  the  trail  in  the  morning;  that  I  was  waiting  until 
he  was  right,  to  have  a  complete  understanding.  I  had 
to  make  it  clear  that  I  was  for  Huntoon  every  step  of 
the  road. 

"  But,  will  you  vouch  for  him  not  throwing  us  ?  " 

He  could  not  have  asked  less  of  me,  nor  more.  I 
saw  the  other  side — how  little  I  really  knew  about 
Huntoon;  how  strong  a  string  it  seemed  to  be  that  held 
him  over  the  canyon ;  what  might  happen  if  he  told 
Orion  certain  matters  which  I  now  suspected.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"  We'll  say  no  more  about  that,"  Romany  replied 
briefly. 

But  it  haunted  me;  and  the  more  I  thought,  the 
greater  appeared  the  old  Master's  nerve  and  repression 
in  staking  on  my  mere  word — what  seemed  a  life  or 


Lost  Valley 

death  issue.  .  .  .  Weakness  and  pain  had  brought  the 
past  before  him.  He  asked  many  questions  about  Mary 
Romany — that  a  father  could  learn  only  from  another. 

"  It's  worth  the  wound  to  hear  all  this,"  he  whis 
pered.  "  And  so  you  believe  in  the  Year,  and  really 
want  an  old  man  mixed  up  in  your  happiness  venture? 
...  I  hardly  know  what  to  expect  from  you,  Mr. 
Ryerson.  I'm  saving  you  lip  for  some  big  leisure-time. 
You  were  much  too  much  for  poor  Santell. 

"  And  little  Mary,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause.  "  I've 
always  been  somewhat  awed  before  her.  When  I  find 
deep  places  in  other  people,  I  like  to  sound;  but  with 
Mary,  the  deep  places  frightened  me  off.  They  seemed 
too  pure  for  my  tampering.  I  wonder  if  she  knows 
how  much  I  have  thought  about  her — how  I  see  her 
still  in  her  ribbons — matters  of  fifteen  years  ago,  quite 
as  sharp  as  our  last  day  in  New  York  together.  There 
is  much  about  her,  which  even  a  father  must  grow 
older  and  wiser  to  understand — essences  of  character. 
Her  mother  and  I  never  managed  together,  but  I  loved 
her  mother.  That's  queer,  isn't  it?  Mary  and  her 
mother  cried  in  the  same  way — I  never  could  stay — 
when  they  cried." 

He  could  only  reveal  the  shadows  of  the  substance 
his  heart  held.  He  had  preserved  a  fineness  of  spirit 
back  of  the  life-long  passion  of  a  gold-hunter.  I  saw 
that  he  loved  the  drama,  the  great  gamble;  that  his 
strange  character  found  expression  in  remote  ventures 
and  difficult  masteries  among  men.  I  saw  here  that  the 
cause  was  more  to  him  than  his  own  fortune;  that  to 
Romany,  Tropicania  meant  enough  for  all.  His  enemies 
were  Powers,  not  men. 

"  I   wasn't   meant   for   family   life,"   he   added.     "  I 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

should  not  have  married  Mary's  mother ;  and  yet,  some 
times  when  I  think  of  myself — just  myself — it's  the 
only  worthy  thing  I  ever  did.  The  other  and  rational 
side  is  that  I  made  her  unhappy,  her  whole  life  un 
happy.  ...  I  remember  when  I  was  like  you — afield 
with  a  woman's  loveliness  brimming  over  every  thought. 
Many  years  ago.  I  had  seen  Mary's  mother  and  could 
think  of  none  other.  I  went  away,  when  she  would 
have  had  it  otherwise — to  make  a  fortune  for  her.  I 
thought  of  her  day  and  night — day  and  night.  I  went 
back  with  a  bit  of  a  fortune,  too, — but  I  couldn't  stay. 
It's  my  devil.  Some  men  have  drink,  some  have  women, 
and  some  have  money-devils — mine  were  the  far  chances. 
And  yet  only  afield — does  a  man  know  how  much  he 
needs  a  woman.  .  .  . 

"  The  thing  about  you,  Mr.  Ryerson,  is  that  you 
see  the  commonness,  the  boyishness  of  all  this  Lure. 
You  don't  deny  the  romance  of  it — but  you  know  there 
is  a  greater  romance.  Tropicania  looks  like  a  big  game 
to  the  world,  but  you  know  a  finer  one,  more  subtle 
and  difficult — a  game  that  requires  more  of  a  man  than 
this  valley  does.  Just  making  a  woman  happy.  .  .  . 
I  couldn't  see  it — until  I  was  an  old  man.  I  was  old  before 
I  could  put  away  these  boyish  things — and  the  time  was 
past  for  me.  You've  got  it  young,  Mr.  Ryerson.  You 
can  put  'em  away.  I  know  you  can — from  what  you 
say  and  look — and  there's  another  reason " 

"Yes?" 

"  Because  Mary  says  so.  I  think  she  knows.  I've 
a  great  respect  for  little  Mary.  You'll  do  what  only 
the  giants  can  do — make  a  woman  happy.  .  .  .  I'm — it's 
irritating — this  getting  hit  to-day " 

I  bent  forward. 


Lost  Valley  213 

"  I  don't  mean  the  suffering — nor  myself — but  this 
Tropicania.  I'd  like  to  close  it  right,  within  your  Year. 
I  want  to  take  a  hand 'in  your  venture." 

"  That  would  be  bringing  a  gift  back." 

"  When  I  was  hit  to-day,"  he  said,  "  I  sort  of  saw 
the  end.  I'm  an  old  man — times  are  running  close.  It's 
not  all  as  I  told  you.  We're  strapped.  There  aren't 
five  rounds  of  ammunition  in  my  command.  .  .  .  And 
then,  if  I'm  down — there's  no  other.  I've  learned  com 
mand,  Mr.  Ryerson, — there's  no  joy  in  it,  no  pride  in 
any  part  of  it — to  an  old  man.  ...  I  should  have  seen 
these  things  younger — as  you  have " 

"  I  didn't  see  them — it  was  your  daughter  who 
showed  me." 

"  And  she  learned  it  from  the  misery  of  her  mother," 
he  added.  "  We're  all  bound  together.  A  lot  of  people 
live  and  die — for  one  boy  and  girl  to  see.  Just  a  little 
realization,  the  fruit  of  many  lives  of  hard  service — and 
the  result — it's  too  stiff,  this  thinking — good-night, " 

His  hand  came  out  in  the  dark  and  gripped  mine — 
a  lean  and  feverish  hand.  I  asked  to  have  my  cot  taken 
next  to  Huntoon's.  There  were  no  more  words  that 
night. 

8 

MY  first  idea  of  drawing  the  cot  by  his,  was  to  be 
there  if  Huntoon  suddenly  felt  an  impulse  to  speak.  I 
was  well  aware  that  once  normal,  I  could  not  take  it 
upon  myself  to  organize  his  conduct.  No  matter  what 
my  obligation  to  Romany,  which  was  warming  and 
augmenting  momentarily — Huntoon  was  a  friend — until 
he  proved  a  spy. 

All  next  day  he   remained  dry  and  brooded — and 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  next.  In  these  two  days,  there  was  no  fighting  at 
the  Headland  nor  change  in  the  valley.  The  old  Master 
did  not  leave  his  cot.  I  told  him  of  the  Yarbins  in 
Libertad.  He  said  he  would  remember  them,  if  the 
trail  opened  again.  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mary 
Romany,  inclosed  in  two  envelopes,  and  gave  these  to 
her  father;  also  I  met  Maconachie,  the  mining  engineer; 
Wesley  the  gambler,  Dole  the  sutler,  miners,  smiths, 
artisans ;  and  explored  the  valley  full-length — even  to  the 
wrathful  mouth  of  the  impassable  gorge. 

Maconachie,  who  was  next  to  Romany  on  the  river, 
although  nominally  the  consulting  head  of  the  wet  placer, 
was  alarmingly  angular.  He  did  not  seem  to  have  a 
laugh  in  him.  He  was  dry  and  narrow  and  young, 
without  "  give  "  anywhere.  He  could  fold,  but  not  bend. 
His  chest  did  not  move  when  he  breathed.  It  was  tight 
as  a  snuff-box  and  not  much  larger.  I  wondered 
where  he  kept  that  excellent  baritone.  I  have  found 
few  men  more  absorbing  in  their  own  work. 

It  was  Maconachie  who  explained  the  river  opera 
tions,  pointing  out  the  dredge-machinery,  installed  upon 
a  flat-bottomed  boat,  which  carried  the  appliances  for 
gold  extraction  as  well.  I  knew  something  about  dry 
placers,  but  this  deep-stream  work  was  altogether  new. 
The  river  bottom  was  sand  and  gravel,  so  there  was  no 
crushing.  The  gold-bearing  river-bed  was  emptied  by 
the  dredge  into  a  system  of  sluices,  where  the  coarse 
gravel  was  caught  by  a  grating,  and  the  gold  deposit 
was  "  riffled  "  with  mercury.  Thus  was  combined  the 
process  of  extraction  by  washing  and  by  amalgamation. 

It  was  Maconachie  who  showed  me  the  Deep  Hole 
in  the  Calderon.  Straight  down  from  the  Vatican,  the 
river-bed  sank  away  into  an  abyss.  The  mining  engineer 


Lost  Valley  215 

privately  held  to  the  opinion  that  the  river  was  strength 
ened  at  this  point  either  by  strong-flowing  springs  or  by 
a  subterranean  tributary.  With  the  old  Master  laid  up, 
there  was  no  one  to  show  me  the  Vatican — that  mys 
terious  arsenal  and  gold-treasury ;  nor  did  I  encounter 
the  machine-guns  so  pleasantly  referred  to  on  our  first 
walk  abroad. 

On  the  third  morning  after  the  fight  at  the  Headland 
(the  beginning  of  my  fifth  day  in  the  valley),  I  was 
aroused  by  Romany's  voice  raised  in  altercation  witfi 
Jason,  the  surgeon.  The  old  Master  was  preparing  for 
a  ride  to  the  Headland.  Jason  said  it  would  mean  a  rise 
in  temperature,  and  the  poisoning  of  the  wound — per 
haps  the  Chief's  death. 

"  You're  a  good  boy,  and  it  warms  me  to  see  your 
interest,"  Romany  said  with  a  laugh.  "  But  it  happens 
to-day  that  I  must  go." 

It  was  very  early.  I  was  somewhat  surprised  when 
the  Chief  asked  if  Huntoon  and  I  cared  to  join  him.  I 
remember  the  gray  hardness  of  his  face  as  we  helped 
him  into  the  saddle;  how  his  eyes  turned  upward  from 
weakness  and  the  torture  of  the  unhealed  wound. 
Huntoon  was  gravely  absorbed,  and  I  could  hardly 
speak.  A  mile  beyond  the  Pass,  Romany  fainted,  but 
recovered  as  we  began  to  let  him  down  from  the  saddle. 
"  The  little  bone-setter  was  right,"  he  muttered. 
"  I  belong  under  cover  for  a  few  days.  I  suppose  they 
know  what  to  do  at  the  Headland.  Leek  went  over  at 
daylight.  Tom," — it  was  the  first  time — "  you  see  me 
back  to  the  valley." 

I  had  hardly  thought  of  Huntoon.  Turning  after  we 
had  been  a  moment  on  the  trail,  I  saw  him  standing  by 
his  mule's  head  where  the  halt  had  been  made.  .  .  .  The 


216  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Chief  needed  but  little  help  on  the  ride  back ;  and  further 
amazed  me,  by  sitting  at  his  desk  and  writing  an  ex 
tended  message  to  Colonel  Viringhy,  before  resigning 
himself  to  Jason.  I  was  to  take  the  message  back  to 
the  Headland. 

Huntoon  had  not  waited  for  me.  Half-way  between 
the  Pass  and  the  Headland,  I  overtook  his  mule.  The 
first  fear  was  that  Orion's  sharpshooters  had  picked  off 
my  friend,  but  no  shots  had  been  reported  at  the  Pass. 
Ill  with  dread,  I  wondered  if  there  was  a  way  of  com 
municating  across  the  precipice?  ...  If  Orion  were  in 
formed  how  low  on  ammunition  was  the  force  at  the 
Headland,  and  the  Tropicania  outfit  generally,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  the  issue. 

I  did  not  give  up  hope  entirely.  Huntoon  might 
have  been  decently  hit.  Even  that  were  better  in  my 
mind  than  the  betrayal.  .  .  .  Yet  did  not  being  square 
with  Romany  mean  a  betrayal  of  Orion? 

It  is  true,  Huntoon  had  not  heard  the  confession 
from  the  Chief's  lips,  that  there  was  no  more  than  five 
rounds  left  to  the  whole  command;  but  he  had  a  keener 
military  eye  than  any,  and  could  guess  the  situation. 
Again  and  again  this  thought:  If  he  should  tell  Orion 
of  Romany's  shortage,  the  Headland  would  change 
hands,  perhaps  this  day,  and  Tropicania  would  be  cut 
off  from  the  possible  ammunition-steamer.  .  .  .  Ques 
tions  and  possibilities  maddened  me,  and  the  steady 
pound  of  the  truth  that  I  had  brought  Huntoon,  that  I 
had  vouched  for  him.  ...  In  spite  of  the  miserable 
stress,  there  appeared  no  good  in  reporting  Huntoon's 
disaffection  to  Viringhy  when  delivering  the  message. 
I  started  back  in  the  early  afternoon,  having  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  tell  the  old  Master  unless  he  inquired 


Lost  Valley  217 

directly.  Of  course,  at  the  Headland  they  believed 
Huntoon  back  at  the  placer;  and  it  proved,  when  I 
reached  there,  that  he  was  supposed  to  have  remained 
at  the  sea-end.  Romany,  at  least,  did  not  ask.  That 
was  a  black  night  for  me,  and  when  I  heard  the  Chief's 
call  in  the  early  morning,  I  thought  the  time  had  come 
for  my  miserable  stewardship  to  be  known.  Instead 
he  said  wearily: 

"  Tom,  it's  going  to  be  a  noisy  day  at  the  Head 
land.  I  should  be  there,  but  I  can't.  There'll  be 
fighting.  I'll  keep  Leek  here  for  emergencies.  Jason 
must  go  on.  You  are  to  help  Viringhy  hold  the  Head 
land — until  further  orders.  Here's  another  dispatch. 
.  .  .  It's  the  last  fight  there." 

"  Then  there'll  be  a  ship  ?  "  I  whispered  with  effort. 

"  Yes,"  and  the  pale  shadow  of  a  smile  wavered 
over  the  gray  face.  "  You'll  be  back  here  to-night — 
with  good  news,  I  trust — take  care  of  yourself " 

I  wanted  to  run  from  him.  Huntoon  had  done  well 
— if  he  were  working  against  us.  This  was  the  day  of 
all,  for  Orion  to  take  the  Headland.  And  I  was  to 
come  back  with  good  news.  .  .  .  The  ride  through  the 
Canyon  was  painfully  slow  that  morning.  Jason  and  I 
led  a  mule  each,  packing  the  last  dole  of  ammunition 
for  Viringhy's  fighters.  It  was  pitiful  to  me — a  half- 
dozen  boxes  of  cartridges.  A  reinforcement  of  miners 
marched  behind  us.  What  a  volley  we  drew  on  the 
Causeway  as  our  little  party  rowelled  across.  .  .  .  The 
ship  was  in  the  offing  and  fighting  was  on. 

This  day's  attack  was  identical  with  the  other  in 
its  early  features;  little  charges  one  after  another  re 
pulsed  up  to  noon  and  beyond.  I  could  not  help  feeling 
that  Orion  was  toying  with  us,  preparing  for  a  grand 


218  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

upward  dash  to  the  Causeway.  Huntoon  was  related 
in  my  mind  to  every  movement  of  that  morning.  Out- 
and-out  reason  told  me  the  remittance-man  must  be 
dead,  or  earning  his  wages  from  Orion  as  he  set  out 
to  do;  but  something  deeper  than  brain,  whispered  that 
he  loved  the  weaker  cause;  that  he  liked  me;  and  was 
fascinated  by  the  gameness  of  Romany,  hard-hit. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  steamer  turned 
in  from  the  offing. 

This  was  the  move  that  Orion  hacl  waited  for.  I 
saw  his  force  marshalling  in  the  thickly  wooded  ways 
across  and  below — glimpses  of  line  after  line  of  here 
tofore  unused  native  soldiery — a  big  fatuous  reserve. 
Clearly  he  had  held  himself  and  his  force  for  this  strike. 
I  watched  from  the  hooded  rock  which  the  paper  cannons 
had  belched  so  regularly  four  days  before. 

It  was  not  laughable  to  me — these  serious  prepara 
tions.  I  was  to  bring  good  news  back  to  the  valley  this 
night — and  so  far  as  I  knew  Orion  was  energized  for 
this  last  charge  by  the  word  of  my  friend.  Even  the 
Pass  could  not  be  held  long.  Without  ammunition,  if 
we  lost  the  Headland,  miners  and  soldiers  would  shortly 
be  at  the  mercy  of  Orion's  force  in  the  Cul-de-sac.  I 
thought  of  three  hundred  men  crowded  in  the  Vatican. 
. .  .  Orion  must  have  been  moving  seven  or  eight  hundred. 
Again  and  again  his  boats  had  crossed  the  river  and 
landed  behind  the  notch  of  the  arrowhead.  Another  big 
line  was  organized  on  the  cliffs  opposite.  Skirmishers 
broke  out  from  cover  of  the  rocks  and  started  up  the 
slopes. 

Viringhy  answered  the  move.  His  men  swarmed 
along  the  Causeway,  imperfectly  sheltered  from  the 
cross-fire,  to  break  the  point  of  the  charges  from  below. 


Lost  Valley  219 

Now,  with  this  neck  of  land  threatened,  the  bulk  of  the 
force  on  the  Headland  withdrew  toward  the  Causeway, 
so  as  not  to  be  cut  off  from  retreat  to  the  Pass  at  the 
last  moment.  This  left  the  sea-point  practically  un 
guarded.  I  saw  an  altogether  new  zeal  on  the  part  of 
the  enemy,  a  determination  not  shown  in  any  movement 
before.  This  meant  Huntoon  to  me. 

And  now  the  last  terrible  strain  upon  the  ammunition 
boxes.  There  was  no  holding  back.  The  numbers  had 
to  be  met  by  hard  steady  fire. 

Again  and  again  the  point  was  broken,  but  re 
formed;  each  time  higher  up  the  cliffs  the  charges 
reached,  and  each  time  certain  of  the  most  daring  found 
places  of  refuge  in  the  rocks,  out  of  range  of  our  fire. 
They  were  ready  to  form  the  point  of  the  final  charge. 

For  a  half-hour  this  action  held  on  terrifically.  I 
was  appalled  at  the  courage  of  Orion's  natives,  notorious 
the  world  over  for  cowardice.  What  would  real  men  do 
— when  this  mocking  illusion  called  battle  spirit,  made  an 
intrepid  offence  like  this  from  such  poor  soldier  stuff? 

There  was  a  yell  from  behind — from  the  pitiable 
remnant  of  a  guard  at  the  seaward  end  of  the  Headland. 
I  ran  back.  Orion  had  a  half-dozen  small  boats  at  sea, 
cutting  us  off  from  the  steamer,  which  was  now  but  a 
third  of  a  mile  from  shore.  A  small  column  had  been 
landed  at  the  Headland  base,  prepared  to  make  a  charge 
up  that  steep  trail.  .  .  . 

I  faced  it  that  moment — Failure.  They  were  too 
many.  In  another  ten  minutes  our  rifles  would  be  use 
less  save  as  clubs.  .  .  .  The  ship  crept  nearer.  The 
thought  of  Huntoon  was  poison  to  me.  The  cliffs  up  to 
the  Causeway  were  filling  with  men  from  the  charges. 
They  could  not  reach  Viringhy's  defenders  with  their 


220  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

fire,  but  many  of  the  enemy  were  equally  out  of  our 
range. 

And  now  Viringhy  realized  the  crisis.  He  could  not 
hold  his  soldiers  at  the  point  of  the  Headland.  The 
defensive  force  on  the  Causeway  was  crumbling. 

I  did  not  blame  the  men.  I  had  already  accepted 
loss — not  only  of  the  battle,  but  of  Tropicania.  The 
ascent  of  the  seaward  cliffs  by  Orion's  force  was  prac 
tically  unmet — and  his  small  boats  stood  between  us  and 
the  ship's  cargo. 

I  saw  Orion  settle  back  on  the  slopes  for  the  final 
effort — a  concerted  charge  on  the  Headland  and  the 
Causeway.  Viringhy's  command  was  out  of  hand.  The 
whole  force  was  set  to  race  across  the  neck.  ...  A 
last  red-hot  bit  of  action — a  seething  of  bullets  at  close 
range;  the  enemy  swarming  among  the  rocks.  .  .  .  And 
now  I  have  a  confused  picture  of  writhing,  wounded, 
pitiful  figures  of  bare-footed  men,  hard-hit  and  limply 
detached  from  the  rocks  to  roll  down  the  slopes.  Here 
was  the  ghastliness  of  a  close-range  fight.  ...  A  yell 
from  the  valley-trail  drew  my  eyes.  Leek  was  coming 
at  a  gallop,  and  behind  him  on  foot — Huntoon,  spent 
and  staggering. 

9 

LEEK  rode  straight  to  Viringhy ;  I  made  for  Huntoon. 
.  .  .  He  had  not  been  drinking.  He  was  not  bloody, 
nor  wounded  apparently,  but  white  and  drooping. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.  Thankfulness  for  his  life 
was  my  first  emotion. 

"Just  played,"  he  gasped. 

The  fighting  was  wild  in  our  ears,  but  this  I  saw, 
before  all :  There  was  no  shame  on  the  face  of  Huntoon. 


Lost  Valley  221 

...  I  drew  him  back  from  the  rim  of  the  Causeway,  my 
arm  upon  his  shoulder.  At  this  instant  I  heard  the 
call  of  "  Retreat "  from  Viringhy.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
startled  curse  from  my  exhausted  friend. 

"They're  giving  up — for  God's  sake,  what  for?" 

The  yell  of  the  soldiers  and  miners  that  answered  the 
failure-signal  from  Viringhy,  was  not  altogether  of 
acclaim.  Dozens  of  the  men  seemed  to  remember  at  this 
moment  their  fortune  in  the  valley.  Vaguely  they 
wanted  to  fight  to  the  end  here,  now  that  retreat  was 
assured. 

Huntoon  left  me  and  rushed  up  to  the  old  leader.  I 
did  not  hear  what  he  said,  for  his  back  was  toward  me, 
but  Viringhy  turned  a  quick  glance  of  hatred  in  reply — 
and  snarled  the  ultimate  insult.  ...  I  caught  Huntoon 
in  time  to  prevent  him  from  striking  the  commander — 
who  drew  a  pistol. 

"  And  you,  who  have  been  so  valuable  all  day,"  he 
said  to  me,  "  what  have  you  to  report  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  I. 

Viringhy's  men  meanwhile  had  broken  and  were 
streaming  over  the  Causeway.  We  were  carried  forward 
in  the  torrent.  ...  It  was  all  slaty  and  bitter  to  me — 
the  yells  of  exultation  from  the  enemy  on  the  slopes, 
and  the  roar  of  the  unimpeded  charge  now  rushing  up 
the  seaward  face  of  the  Headland.  And  I  was  supposed 
to  bring  back  glad  tidings  to  Romany.  A  picture  passed 
through  my  mind,  of  the  old  Master  turning  his  face 
to  the  wall.  ...  It  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  have 
done  better ;  that  he  might  have  arranged  for  the  ammu 
nition-ship  to  steal  in  during  the  night  and  force  a 
quick  landing  under  cover  of  darkness,  even  risking  a 
hand-to-hand  fight. 

"  Greater  to  me  than   the  tragedy  of  the  message 


222  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

now  borne  back  to  Romany,  was  the  personal  shame. 
I  had  come  to  bring  him  substance  of  deep  delight, 
friendship  for  life's  afternoon.  .  .  .  Santell  had  fallen; 
the  battle  was  lost — if  these  were  all  I  might  detach 
myself  from  Santell,  and  help  her  father  to  another 
prospect  of  fortune,  but  I  had  brought  Huntoon.  There 
was  an  absolute  unreadiness  of  my  mind  for  defeat  of 
any  kind.  Since  Covent,  a  large  intolerance  against 
any  sort  of  ill  fortune  had  possessed  me.  I  had  come 
to  feel  that  I  was  a  good  omen  to  others — anywhere.  .  .  . 
The  turmoil  was  over;  we  were  lengthened  out  along 
the  trail  at  last.  I  turned  to  Huntoon. 

"I  wonder  what  was  the  message  Leek  brought?" 
he  muttered. 

"  You  came  with  him,"  I  said  coldly. 

"  Yes,  I  know — but  he  didn't  get  plummy  about  what 
was  on  his  mind.  I'd  like  to  know.  It  was  just  after 
that — the  old  crocodile  ordered  '  Retreat ' " 

"  Huntoon "  I  began. 

"  M— m." 

"  Do  you  know  I've  had  a  hard  time  keeping  you 
square  in  my  mind  ?  " 

"  That's  rather  funny,"  he  answered.  "  I  couldn't 
do  that  for  myself — and  send  a  boy.  That's  exactly  why 
I  disappeared — that  chore." 

"  You'd  better  tell  me,  Huntoon.  The  Old  Man 
knows  you  were  in  Orion's  lines.  He  evidently  had  them 
planted." 

"  Ryerson,"  he  said  hastily,  "  besides  making  an  ass 
of  myself  in  this  world,  I've  only  done  one  thing  well 
— and  that's  soldiering  when  there's  action.  You  know, 
I  got  drunk  and  woke  up  one  morning  in  Orion's  camp. 
The  only  way  I  could  get  out — as  I  saw  it  through  a 
thick  hangover — was  to  show  'em  a  soldier,  which  I  did. 


Lost  Valley  223 

Then  I  told  'em  I  was  meeting  up  with  a  pal  in 
Libertad,  who  was  a  soldier  right — a  man  who  had  made 
sergeant-major  in  a  regular  cavalry  outfit  in  the  States 
in  one  enlistment.  That's  the  best  an  enlisted  man  can 
do,  and  it  usually  takes  twenty-five  years.  I  said  this 
pal  thought  Romany's  end,  the  gamier  fighting  proposi 
tion.  Orion  then  let  himself  out  to  show  me  what  a 
chance  for  fighting  there  was  with  him.  This  took  a 
couple  of  days  and  many  rum  and  orange  cocktails.  I 
began  to  see  he  wanted  something — and  it  leaked  out 
finally.  I  was  the  man  for  the  job.  He  said  there  was  a 
thousand  pesos  in  it  for  me " 

Huntoon  paused.  He  was  heavy  on  my  arm,  but  I 
had  to  know  the  rest. 

"  What  was  the  job?  "  I  asked. 

"  To  find  out  how  Romany  stood  for  guns  and 
ammunition.  I  undertook  to  find  out — rockin'  drunk, 
you  know,  and  unwilling  to  break  my  appointment  with 
you "  He  grinned. 

"Well,"  said  I. 

"  He  told  me  all  what  to  do — how  to  join  the  rebels, 
as  he  called  them — and  how  to  get  the  word  back.  Then 
I  went  to  the  coast  to  wait  for  you  and  get  in  shape — 
but  there  was  rum  there " 

He  halted  again. 

"  Come  on,  Huntoon.  Give  down  the  rest "  I 

prodded. 

"  You  know  the  rest.  ...  I  woke  up  off  the  Head 
land  with  you — and  had  undertaken  the  job  for  Orion. 
I've  been  a  good  man  in  action.  I  couldn't  get  busy 
here  and  throw  Orion.  When  the  Old  Man  fainted  that 
morning — yesterday  morning — I  saw  a  way  to  make  my 
report  and  resign " 

I  had  dropped  his  arm.  "  Did  you  gain  Orion's 
lines?" 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Huntoon  grinned  at  me  wearily. 

"  I  couldn't  wing  over  the  gorge,"  he  said.  "  The 
bridge  is  swung.  ...  I  turned  loose  the  mule  and  climbed 
the  cliffs  above  the  trail,  at  a  point  about  two  miles 
ahead  from  here " 

"That  was  yesterday  morning?"  I  said  dully. 

"  Sure — after  you  escorted  the  Chief  back.  ...  I 
didn't  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  wanted  you  to  believe  that 
one  of  Orion's  sharpshooters  had  got  me.  I  saw  you 
come  back  from  the  valley  toward  the  Headland,  saw 
you  find  my  mule.  I  knew  you  were  thinking  pretty 
hard "  " 

"  But  how  did  you  get  your — your  report  across  the 
gorge?" 

"  Wig-wagged.  .  .  .  All  day  yesterday,  I  signaled, 
but  didn't  attract  attention  until  night.  Then,  when  they 
got  an  operator  to  take  me,  it  was  too  dark.  But  we  got 
together  this  morning.  It  took  all  morning.  I  only 
had  a  couple  of  hankerchiefs." 

It  was  dark  as  hell  to  me. 

"  What  word  did  you  send  Orion — that  we  were 
short  of  ammunition  ?  " 

"  Did  Orion  attack  to-day  as  if  he  thought  Romany 
was  scraping  the  bottoms  of  his  cartridge-boxes  ?  "  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"  No — not  until  the  steamer  turned  into  the  Head 
land " 

"  Naturally,  that  was  his  cue  for  a  big  noise.  Orion 
had  my  message  two  hours  before  that." 

"  Then  you  lied  to  him  ?  "  I  suggested  curiously. 

"  No.  I  reported  what  Romany  had  told  us.  I 
didn't  confirm  it,  nor  use  my  own  head  to  deny  it.  It 
was  sent  out  as  what  Romany  told  me." 

"  But  that  wouldn't  mean  anything  to  Orion." 


Lost  Valley  225 

"  No.  But  I  took  pains  to  close  my  deal,  to  let  him 
know  I  was  through.  I  can't  help  it  if  he  thinks  I'm  an 
idiot.  I  told  him  to  keep  the  thousand  pesos,  and  that 
this  report  was  the  last  from  me " 

"  You  did  all  this  to  get  on  a  square  basis  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I've  been  a  good  soldier.  That's  all  I  have  to  say. 
Romany  got  to  me — hard  and  deep.  But  I  wasn't 
going  to  lie  to  Orion.  .  .  .  When  a  man  does  one  thing 
well,  he  can't  afford  to  play  yellow  to  that " 

My  hand  sped  across  the  dusk. 

"  You,  Ryerson — what  did  you  say  about  my  being 
missing?" 

"  I  didn't  have  to  say  anything.  The  Old  Man 
didn't  ask.  I  don't  believe  Leek  nor  Viringhy  thought 
of  you.  You  started  out  for  the  Headland.  At  each  end 
they  thought  you  at  the  other " 

"Ah.  .  .  .  But  it's  turned  out  rotten  anyway," 
Huntoon  said  dismally. 

"  Viringhy  was  all  in  for  cartridges." 

"  It  seems  Orion  might  have  been  held  off  with 
clubbed  guns.  My  God,  man, — with  this  ship-load,  Orion 
can " 

"  I  know,  but  Huntoon — it's  great  to  hear  all  this 
about  you.  There  were  times  when  I  seemed  to  draw 
the  whole  black  business  for  bringing  you  here " 

"  I  couldn't  talk  about  it  until  I  was  clear.  You 
wouldn't  have  turned  me  loose  to  wig-wag  the  enemy. 
.  .  .  Say,  we've  got  to  hold  the  trail  at  the  Pass " 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  with  empty  guns,"  said  I. 

"  There  must  be  dynamite  on  the  mining  job — oh, 
hell,  we've  got  to  hold  the  trail  at  the  Pass." 

I  was  silent.  Huntoon  had  not  touched  food  since 
yesterday  morning,  and  had  only  one  drink  of  water 
which  he  had  asked  from  Leek,  who  overtook  him  on 
15 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  way  to  the  Headland  at  the  end  of  the  fight.  I 
found  a  canteen  among  the  men — who  were  all  thirsty 
— and  helped  him  along  as  much  as  he  would  allow 
until  we  reached  the  Pass.  Already  there  was  dusk  in 
the  gorge.  Many  miners  were  massed  there — the  draw 
bridge  down.  ,  .  .  It  struck  me  that  Maconachie  grinned 
in  a  queer  fashion.  I  was  busy  connecting  Huntoon 
with  bacon  sandwiches.  The  Pass  began  to  jam  with 
Viringhy's  force  filing  in.  The  bulk  of  his  men  were 
left  there.  I  wanted  Viringhy  to  go  ahead  toward  the 
valley.  I  didn't  have  glad  tidings.  We  found  a  couple 
of  mules  for  the  rest  of  the  distance.  The  trail  had  a 
dusty  beaten  look.  The  air  was  heavy,  and  Tropicania 
veiled  in  dusk.  Huntoon  had  become  strangely  dear. 
Far  down  I  heard  the  braying  of  mules.  The  day's 
blood-letting  had  made  me  weak.  .  .  .  The  thought  of 
Mary  Romany  was  like  the  vision  of  another  world. 
Rapturous  to  my  tired  beaten  faculties  was  the  mere 
thought  of  her.  I  lost  heart  in  that  hour  of  ever  being 
worthy  to  go  back  to  her  again — so  infinitely  higher 
and  lovelier  was  the  estate  of  her  presence,  than  this 
crude  worldliness  of  gold  and  war. 

We  rode  down  in  the  night.  .  .  .  Empty  pack-mules 
passed  me  on  the  way  back  toward  the  bridge.  Others 
were  noisy  below.  I  hadn't  seen  so  many  mules  before, 
and  more  were  coming  up  the  trail.  It  was  like  a 
mule-congress.  I  discovered  a  strange  picket-line.  The 
air  was  foreign  with  forage  and  beasts  and  cigarette 
tobacco.  ...  In  the  valley,  I  heard  the  women  laughing. 
A  few  men  were  in  Dole's  drinking  noisily.  .  .  . 

By  this  time  I  was  mentally  undone.  Viringhy  had 
gone  ahead,  and  here  was  a  sort  of  celebration  on  the 
part  of  the  few  left  by  the  river.  Had  Orion  taken  the 
placer?  Was  Romany  a  prisoner?  Huntoon  ha'd  not 


Lost  Valley  227 

offered  a  word  for  the  last  two  miles.  I  left  him,  and 
hurried  into  Headquarters  as  Viringhy  came  forth.  The 
old  Master  held  out  his  hand  and  laughed  at  me. 

"  If  somebody  could  only  have  been  there  at  the  Head 
land,  when  the  steamer  turned  and  put  out  to  sea,"  he 
remarked,  and  his  eyes  snapped  with  mysterious 
repression. 

I  sat  down  and  stared  at  him. 

"Tell  me — didn't  she  look  empty?"  he  questioned, 
draining  the  last  essence  of  humor  from  the  picture  in 
his  mind.  .  .  .  Finally,  he  saw  how  far  I  had  sunk,  and 
explained : 

"  That  steamer  is  mine.  She  unloaded  our  cargo  of 
guns  and  cartridges  five  days  ago,  some  thirty  miles 
North  of  Libertad.  Seventy-five  pack-mules  were  wait 
ing  there.  They  circled  around  Libertad  and  hung  up 
on  the  shoulder  of  Moloch  until  to-day.  I  had  to  pull 
Orion's  whole  force  to  the  Headland  to  get  this  train 
over  the  Pass.  That's  what  all  the  manoeuvring  at  the 
Headland  was  for.  The  trick  was  planned  forty  days 
-ago  up  in  Guayaquil.  The  pack-train  is  going  back 
now — before1  Orion  returns  from  the  Headland.  .  .  .  I've 
wanted  to  tell  you,  Tom.  It  was  hard  not  to  tell  you 
— but  I've  found  it  bad  luck  to  emit  even  the  slightest 
crow  ahead  of  time.  .  .  .  No,  my  son,  we  don't  need  the 
Headland — and  neither  does  Orion.  .  .  .  To-morrow 
morning  we  all  get  to  work  gold-gathering " 

I  went  out  to  find  Huntoon  in  the  mulish  night. 

10 

As  I  reflect  a  moment,  it  grows  clear  that  the  events 
at  the  wet  placer  settlement  divide  themselves  into  two 
periods.  The  first  ended  with  the  coming  of  the  great 


228  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

pack-train  with  guns  and  cartridges.  The  second  period 
is  the  lull  of  rich  mining.  The  Rio  Calderon  gave  up 
her  hidden  ornaments  to  modern  machinery.  Viringhy 
held  the  Pass,  and  peace  brooded  over  the  valley. 
Romany  asked  no  more.  The  early  dawn,  the  high 
day,  and  the  late  dusk,  meant  dollars — yellow  condensed 
dollars — and  Tropicania  hummed  with  days  of  toil  and 
nights  of  faro  and  nefariousness. 

The  first  period  covered  six  days  and  the  second  as 
many  months;  the  first  requires  chapters,  the  second 
pages ;  six  days  of  fighting ;  six  months  of  singing. 

Then  there  is  a  final  period  .  .  .  but  a  few  pre 
liminaries  are  to  be  staged.  .  .  . 

The  old  Master  loved  the  story  of  Huntoon.  It 
was  a  story  after  his  own  heart. 

"  I  missed  him,"  he  said,  "  but  I  didn't  care  to  ask 
you.  I  saw  you  were  sweating  blood.  I  couldn't  tell 
you — that  it  might  not  prove  fatal,  even  if  he  were 
Orion's,  body  and  soul.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  he 
had  that  sort  of  a  military  conscience.  Had  you  spoken 
I'd  have  said  he  had  been  picked  off  by  a  sharpshooter. 
If  it  weren't  for  upsetting  Ecuador,  I'd  let  him  go  out 
and  re-take  the  trail  to  the  Headland,  just  as  a  reward 
for  fine  behavior.  But  we  really  don't  need  the  Head 
land.  Orion  won't  remain  strong  there." 

At  the  end  of  the  first  ten  clays,  I  became  mentally 
gaunt  from  thinking  of  possible  letters  at  Libertad.  On 
the  very  night  that  I  had  determined  to  speak,  the  old 
Master  opened  the  subject.  All  was  quiet  except  for  the 
voices  from  Dole's  Riverside  Drive  Inn.  I  was  sitting 
by  his  cot,  which  he  rarely  left,  enjoying  his  talk  and 
the  little  masterpieces  from  the  Amsterdam  dealer. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  those  friends  of  yours  in 


Lost  Valley  229 

Libertad,  Tom  ?  "  Romany  inquired,  with  a  glint  in  his 
eye  that  I  had  come  to  understand. 

He  knew  very  well  that  the  Yarbins  represented  to 
me  but  an  evening's  and  a  morning's  acquaintance.  He 
was  curious  to  see  if  I  would  seek  to  evade  responsibility. 
I  did  not,  nor  did  I  propose  to  tell  about  the  San 
Francisco  paper  sensation  associated  in  my  mind. 

"  The  Yarbins,"  he  repeated.  "  Oh,  yes.  I  expect 
them  to-morrow  night." 

I  cleared  my  throat.     "  Then  there'll  be  mails  ?  " 

"  Yes,  one  drops  in  the  post-office  going  to  town — 
as  a  matter  of  habit." 

"  How  about  Orion  and  the  trail  between  here  and 
Libertad?" 

"  I've  heard  from  Orion,"  he  remarked.  "  He  won't 
bother  us.  He's  decided  not  to  be  an  army.  Gold  has 
been  pronounced  contraband.  Orion  is  a  guard  now  to 
prevent  the  issue  of  bullion  from  the  valley.  The  grocery 
store  up  on  the  slopes  of  Moloch  is  still  open  to 
Tropicania  orders.  He'll  have  a  coast  guard  to  prevent 
us  from  loading  our  pay-dirt  onto  the  steamer,  and  a 
goodly  force  across  the  Pass  to  examine  our  mail-bags 
and  prevent  small  personal  smuggling.  Everything  goes 
out  but  gold." 

"  I  begin  to  see,"  said  I.  "  Orion  is  willing  that 
you  should  do  his  mining  for  him." 

"  You  have  the  point." 

"  It  seems  a  pretty  good  idea  on  his  part,"  said  I. 
"  You  go  down  into  the  Cul-de-sac  and  dig*  gold  for  a 
year — this  adventurer  graciously  permitting  you  to  have 
letters  and  canned  goods,  and  only  insisting  upon  taking 
the  gold  away  when  you  want  to  go  home " 

"  One  has  to  foresee  many  things  in  a  game  like 
this,"  the  old  Master  remarked  cheerfully. 


230  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  In  a  word,  Orion  can't  get  in  and  Romany  can't 
get  out,"  I  finished. 

"  That,  I  believe,  is  an  epigram." 

There  would  be  many  millions  in  gold  bullion  in 
Romany's  hands  before  the  dredge  began  to  bring  up 
colorless  gravel.  I  scanned  the  old  Master's  face.  It 
was  lined  with  pain,  but  Orion's  ultimatum,  which  must 
have  come  across  the  Pass  to  Viringhy,  did  not  seem 
an  added  worry.  Certainly  I  had  cause  to  respect  the 
resourcefulness  of  Mary  Romany's  father. 

"  There's  positively  no  trail  out  through  the  other 
Canyon  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  No,  Tom.  Nothing  like  that.  Orion  knows  it  as 
well  as  I  do.  That  part  of  Peru  is  marked  '  Unknown ' 
on  the  maps.  Do  you  realize  that  there  are  great 
stretches  of  territory  down  here  in  the  Andes — tens  of 
thousands  of  square  miles  in  area — absolutely  virgin  to 
man?  The  Canyon  is  narrow,  filled  with  rocks,  rapids, 
and  falls.  No  trail  was  shelved  by  the  old  Incan  rock- 
punishers." 

All  of  which  he  said  with  unfaltering  good  cheer. 

The  next  evening  brought  the  party  from  Libertad; 
of  which  Romany  had  spoken.  I  sat  in  Headquarters 
holding  myself  hard,  until  the  mail-bags  were  carried  in. 
There  was  nothing  for  me.  It  had  been  only  two  weeks 
— but  hard  to  believe.  Romany  had  gone  out  to  meet 
the  train.  I  locked  up  the  mail  for  a  moment.  I  had 
to  go  out  in  the  dark  to  get  myself  in  hand.  There  was 
a  blur  in  my  eyes,  and  a  clutch  at  my  heart.  The  moun 
tains  closed  in.  It  was  difficult  to  breathe.  ...  At  last 
I  heard  a  woman's  voice  calling  my  name.  ...  It  was 
the  woman  of  the  balcony-room  at  Libertad,  Yarbin's 
woman. 


Lost  Valley  231 

She  was  tall  and  cool  and  steady-eyed.  She  came 
toward  me  smiling,  holding  a  lantern  high.  The  man 
was  behind  her.  .  .  .  She  seemed  finer  and  clearer  here 
than  in  Libertad.  Tropicania  had  shown  me  nothing  but 
the  work-a-day  natures  of  human  beings,  dull  as  the 
yielding  of  earth  itself.  The  women  of  the  settlement 
— tired,  broken,  badly-used  creatures — had  seemed  to 
expect  nothing  but  brutality.  .  .  .  There  was  a  bloom 
upon  this  woman.  She  took  my  hand,  and  with  the  free 
one  drew  forth  a  packet  of  letters  warm  from  her 
breast,  the  lantern  swinging  from  her  elbow. 

I'll  never  forget.  ...  I  glanced  at  the  writing,  and 
then  at  the1  woman's  face.  She  was  laughing  at  me 
strangely. 

"  That  was  one  of  the  best  things  I  ever  did — to 
earn  that  look  from  a  man,"  she  said.  "  Your  Chief 
gave  them  to  me  out  there  at  the  bridge.  He  said  I 
would  see  you  before  he  came  in." 

It  was  now  that  I  greeted  Yarbin,  who  gripped  my 
hand  with  gratitude.  I  had  forgotten  why  for  the 
moment,  and  how  much  it  meant  to  him  to  be  in  the 
valley. 

Lillian  Yarbin  was  adding  vague  explanations.  I 
asked  if  they  were  being  cared  for. 

"  Yes.  The  men  are  putting  up  a  tent  for  us  to 
night,"  she  said.  "  Run  away  and  read  your  letters, 
but  come  and  find  us  as  soon  as  you  can." 

And  so  I  stole  away  to  my  candles.  I  should  always 
be  fond  of  the  woman.  .  .  .  How  Lillian  Yarbin  would 
have  laughed  at  that.  It  was  the  same  with  the  Santell 
memory.  The  last  night  of  his  life,  he  had  run  Orion's 
lines  with  letters  from  Mary  Romany.  .  .  .  The  post 
marks  were  oddly  smudged.  The  first  letter  had  been 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

written  from  Savannah,  Georgia.  The  later  two  were 
not  marked.  Was  she  coming  still  nearer — perhaps  to 
winter  in  Florida?  .  .  .  Mary  Romany  carried  me  far 
out  of  the  world,  and  its  thoughts  and  ways,  filled  my 
life  with  visions.  As  I  blew  out  the  candles,  I  had  to 
recall,  and  with  difficulty,  that  all  men  were  not  harbor 
ing  such  visions.  .  .  . 

A  man's  ideals  sweep  him  out  of  the  human  current 
far  more  surely  than  his  errors.  I  learned  this  well. 

Mary  Romany  had  put  me  away  for  a  year,  and  the 
answer  was  a  kingdom  in  my  heart,  wrought  of  absence 
and  dreams  and  love  of  her.  How  cheap  was  the  price 
I  paid — this  dropping  slightly  out  of  touch  with  men. 
.  .  .  Later  I  saw  that  a  new  tent  had  been  raised  near 
Headquarters,  and  as  I  approached,  a  white  arm  beck 
oned  in  the  moonlight. 

The  Yarbins  fitted  in  smoothly  to  the  life  of  the 
settlement.  I  could  see  that  Romany,  a  sick  man,  liked 
her  stamp  of  woman,  and  found  it  good  to  have  her 
about.  He  made  it  comfortable  for  her  in  many  ways, 
which  she  returned  in  good  measure  to  us  all.  Yarbin 
often  joined  us  in  the  evening  at  Headquarters,  where 
the  dry  Maconachie  called,  and  Huntoon  sat  uneasily  on 
occasion,  rolling  pestiferous  cigarettes  from  a  limp  cloth 
bag.  It  appears  that  Yarbin,  who  had  considerable  cur 
rency,  helped  out  in  the  purchase  of  supplies  from  Liber- 
tad.  Since  gold  was  contraband,  there  was  now  no  need 
of  exciting  Orion  in  the  matter  of  exchange.  It  was 
a  big  gamble  all  around,  but  I  came  to  realize  that  Yarbin 
had  deeply  appreciated  the  little  brush  we  had  in 
Libertad,  and  what  I  had  said  the  next  morning,  about 
having  no  interest  in  him  beyond  Libertad  and  the  valley. 


Lost  Valley  233 

He  saw,  moreover,  that  I  had  not  spoken.  There  was  a 
sense  of  protection  in  Tropicania  which  he  enjoyed  for 
the  woman;  and  when  Yarbin  became  acquainted  with 
Romany,  it  was  clear  that  he  was  willing  to  stake  a  good 
portion  of  what  he  had,  with  the  fortunes  of  the  big 
mining  venture. 

The  old  Master's  wound  healed  outwardly,  but  had 
shaken  the  stronghold.  Every  evening  he  went  to  the 
Vatican  with  the  day's  yield  of  gold,  but  invariably 
alone.  He  alone  held  the  keys  to  the  great  iron  door, 
which  was  locked  after  his  entrance.  On  two  or  three 
occasions,  I  went  with  him  to  the  master-ruin,  when 
duplicate  parts  of  the  machinery  were  needed,  a  few 
extra  guns,  or  valuable  stores ;  but  it  was  afterward  that 
I  was  required  to  look  closely  and  learn  the  mystery  of 
the  treasure-house.  The  impressions  that  remained  from 
these  early  visits  were  external;  the  cistern  in  the  centre 
of  the  ancient  stronghold,  the  great  altar-stone  enig 
matically  perforated,  the  long  cases  of  guns,  ammuni 
tion  boxes,  and  the  vast  bulk  of  provisions  of  an  im 
perishable  nature.  The  size  of  the  interior  astonished 
me.  All  Tropicania  might  have  found  refuge  there, 
indeed ;  and  it  was  no  black  hole.  Strangely  enough 
there  was  fresh-water  in  the  cistern,  and  sunlight  found 
its  way  through  the  broken  places  in  the  roof,  which 
Romany  had  caused  to  be  reinforced  with  iron  bars  when 
he  constructed  the  great  door. 

I  thought  much  of  the  old  Master's  wound  and  the 
man  himself.  On  the  days  when  he  seemed  actually 
to  be  failing,  invariably  would  he  declare  his  strength. 
We  had  many  rare  talks.  He  did  much  writing  and 
intimated  that  I  was  to  have  his  effects  in  the  event 
of  death. 


234  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  I'm  not  looking  for  trouble,"  he  said.  "  This  is 
only  a  sort  of  insurance.  You'll  find  a  letter  upon  me, 
addressed  to  you.  It  will  make  everything  clear." 

His  life  had  made  him  master  of  his  own  thoughts. 
Romany  never  fully  confided  to  me  anything  that  had 
to  do  with  the  success  of  the  settlement,  until  conditions 
forced  a  disclosure.  It  was  not  that  he  distrusted,  I 
found  repeatedly.  As  a  leader  of  a  colony  of  men 
whose  growing  fortunes  were  bound  together  under  his 
hand,  secrecy  appeared  to  him  imperative.  But  there 
was  a  natural  repression  in  the  man — iron  and  unbreak 
able  and  under  his  will,  like  the  great  door  of  the 
Vatican. 

For  instance,  one  night  he  showed  me  a  dispatch 
from  an  important  financial  house  in  Guayaquil, 
politically  very  close  to  the  government  of  Ecuador  and 
colossally  rich.  The  message  was  a  reply  to  one  that 
the  old  Master  had  sent  out  evidently  weeks  before,  and 
was  a  courteous  refusal  of  a  large  loan.  The  terms  of 
the  letter  showed  me  what  Romany  had  asked  and  repre 
sented.  He  had  made  it  appear  that  he  was  in  need  of 
more  machinery ;  and  that,  while  he  was  convinced  more 
than  ever  of  the  riches  in  the  Calderon,  it  was  going  to 
require  much  more  money  than  he  had,  to  get  out  the 
gold. 

And  this  was  his  way  of  writhing  a  little,  of  repre 
senting  failure  to  Ecuador,  of  breaking  the  patience  and 
concentration  of  Orion. 

I  knew  that  the  riches  in  the  Calderon  were  pro 
digious,  also  that  they  were  yielding  themselves  every 
daylight  hour;  singing  excitement  everywhere.  Each 
passing  day  was  a  victory;  and  yet  with  curious  and 
far-reaching  care  the  old  Master  had  undertaken  to 
negotiate  a  loan  that  he  had  no  use  for.  The  strategy 


Lost  Valley  235 

undoubtedly  checked  the  rush  to  the  eldorado,  and  cooled 
the  lust  of  the  two  republics. 

The  men  knew  that  all  was  going  well,  but  so  un- 
deviating  was  the  course  of  Romany's  policy  of  silence, 
that  even  Maconachie  could  only  guess  at  the  degree; 
and  I,  who  was  closest  to  the  Chief,  did  not  know  until 
afterward  that  the  winning  surpassed  even  his  dreams. 

He  watched  very  closely  my  relation  to  the  colony, 
pleased  to  observe  that  I  prospered  alike  with  the  soldiers 
and  miners.  I  had  fallen  into  the  post  of  his  aide,  on 
a  large  and  friendly  basis,  and  found  much  to  do  both 
in  the  departments  of  defense  and  labor.  Leek  alone 
remained  unopened,  in  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  The 
personal  factotum  to  the  old  Master  appeared  to  resent 
my  advent. 

It  was  the  same  between  Viringhy  and  Huntoon.  No 
love  of  these  two  for  each  other  complicated  their  day's 
work.  Huntoon  remained  dry — just  about;  his  enthusi 
asm  for  the  old  Master  unabated.  Romany's  personal 
gameness  and  mastery  of  strategic  changes  had  won  the 
professional  soldier  to  the  last  breath.  Huntoon  had 
been  given  Santell's  place — second  to  old  Viringhy  in  the 
fighting  force. 

11 

I  USED  to  take  my  letters  to  the  far  end  of  the 
Cul-de-sac,  where  the  blocked  gorge  eternally  booms. 
My  thoughts  silenced  the  wild  music  of  rocks  and  water. 
Three  miles  back,  the  smoke  of  the  dredge  tried  steadily, 
and  often  vainly,  to  show  its  wisp  above  the  brown 
curvilinear  mass  of  Moloch,  and  the  Vatican  stood  out 
like  a  great  toe  from  the  mighty  nameless  mountain  to 
the  seaward.  .  .  . 

This   was   the    solitude   I    desired.      One   of    Mary 


236  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Romany's  letters  had  been  dated  from  Tampa.  She 
did  not  deign  to  fix  the  place  of  her  writing  more  than 
once.  Matters  of  the  place  and  the  day,  moreover,  did 
not  compel  space  in  these  living  documents  which  her 
father  handed  me  with  delightful  regularity;  but  I 
thought  of  her  as  in  Tampa,  and  needed  no  date-lines 
for  the  boundless  joy  her  writing  brought.  There  was 
an  invariable  smudging  of  envelopes  in  the  Libertad 
office,  as  if  they  used  the  ink-pad  instead  of  the  stamp. 
The  old  Master  often  laughed  about  it. 

From  almost  every  letter  there  was  a  line  so  in 
tensely  vital,  that  it  was  like  a  winged  bird  in  my  mind. 
Though  her  hall-mark  of  individuality  was  upon  these 
lines,  they  were  less  personal,  pure  truth  fragments. 
She  gave  no  thought  to  the  art  of  her  writing.  .  .  . 
Covent  was  like  a  deep  dream  to  her,  she  said,  and  she 
moved  about  now,  all  the  stations  of  her  life  marked 
with  Covent  places  and  whispers  and  scenes.  Living 
a  dream — that's  what  made  the  real  artist,  she  believed. 
I  remembered  that  entrancing  look  in  Mary  Romany's 
eyes  (that  made  a  child  and  worshipper  of  me)  when 
she  looked  away  to  sea  against  the  wind.  .  .  .  And  some 
times  I  found  a  little  gray  fear,  not  in  the  words,  but  a 
shadow  over  the  page  as  she  wrote.  And  once  she 
dreamed  about  a  caravan — journeying  on  and  on  through 
dawns  and  dusks  and  moonlights  and  burning  days.  In 
this  dream  she  did  not  know  if  she  would  end  among 
the  palms  and  fountains  or  out  in  the  dry  wastes.  .  .  . 
I  saw  the  eminence  she  desired  to  reach  with  her  lover — 
and  eminence  that  only  prophets  reach,  and  they  alone, 
girded  with  the  fiery  strength  of  loneliness.  I  had  but 
a  man's  hard  limbs,  yet  I  remembered  she  had  wings. 

From  the  crinkly  sheets,  I  realized  her  temperament 
again,  its  instant  unfolding,  its  vitality  and  concentra- 


Lost  Valley  237 

tion,  its  passion  lifting  out  of  the  senses.  I  saw  the 
thrilling  woman  that  others  might  see,  the  strong  frail 
hand  that  knew  so  much,  the  lips  that  trembled,  the  eyes 
that  filled  with  tears,  and  the  heart  that  knew  its  lover 
and  fared  forth  to  meet  him — and  was  waiting  until  he 
came.  How  I  willed  and  desired  to  bring  back  the 
world's  song  to  that  brave  breast. 

She  had  the  strangest  way  of  not  mentioning  things, 
but  the  spirit  of  things.  She  reproduced  actually  none 
of  our  land-marks,  but  salient  pictures  of  them,  all  the 
more  startling  in  effect.  She  used  words  not  to  tell  the 
facts  of  her  yearning  and  remembering,  but  to  quicken 
my  mind  with  the  very  currents  which  carried  them.  .  .  . 
And  so  I  sat  in  solitude  in  the  midst  of  the  great  moun 
tains;  often  it  was  twilight  before  I  started  back.  The 
time  passed  magically,  remembering  Mary  Romany  and 
the  fulness  of  life  she  had  brought  to  me.  It  was  a 
love  that  had  known  many  waters ;  the  Yellow  River  for 
action;  the  Island  for  early  romantic  blooms,  and  these 
mountains  for  meditation. 

So  often  I  remembered  that  Covent  sunset  and  the 
low  graves  on  the  bluffs,*  and  what  we  had  said.  I  found 
some  verses  of  Charles  Henry  Luders  called  The  Four 
Winds,  when  my  cases  were  brought  down  from  Liber- 
tad.  I  put  the  clipping  in  a  letter,  and  knew  that  she 
would  remember  that  day.  It  was- enough  for  any  man 
to  do,  that  poem.  ...  I  wish  I  could  suggest  the 
beloved  mystery  of  Mary  Romany  as  it  m«t  and  mingled 
with  all  that  was  untried  and  blindly  animate  in  my 
own  heart. 

I  remembered  the  pebbles  on  the  shore  of  the  Sound 
— and  the  few  bright  ones  we  saw,  and  what  these  few 
were  likened  to  in.  her  mind ;  of  the  Shining  Waiting 
One  who  did  not  have  the  "  sweet  intense  anxiety  "  of 


238  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  others.  ...  I  thought  of  her  taking  long  breaths 
for  me,  in  the  weeks  that  I  had  breathed  from  the  throat, 
recalled  the  middle-room,  the  piano-house,  the  perfect 
first  night,  the  proprietor  "  with  a  touch  of  the  big 
city  upon  him."  ...  I  remembered  the  last  night  of 
storm  and  the  yellow  rose,  all  her  sentences,  and  the 
voices  she  had  heard  in  the  wind  saying,  "  We  have 
helped  you." 

She  had  not  cared  what  others  thought;  she  had 
met  full  frankly  the  eyes  of  the  Inn-keeper  and  the 
women  of  the  house.  She  was  strong  in  loving.  .  .  . 
Her  red  lips  and  the  riddle  of  creation  in  her  eyes  that 
morning  in  Covent,  as  I  crossed  the  room;  and  how 
we  went  back  together  from  the  country  of  the  red 
earth,  and  she  was  not  afraid;  the  kiss  of  morning, 
moonlight,  east  windows  and  the  sounding  North  She 
had  made  over  anew  each  day  for  me.  The  first  glance 
of  her  in  the  morning,  some  profile-inspiration,  some  new 
charm  in  what  she  said  or  wore,  arranged  the  day  and 
adjusted  me  to  a  pitch  in  the  creative  scheme,  different 
always  from  yesterday  and  never  exactly  to  be  duplicated 
again. 

A  woman  must  have  this  effect  upon  a  man  if  the 
two  have  been  designed  for  each  other,  since  to  be 
happy  and  alive  one  must  break  new  ground  each  day. 
There  may  be  matters  of  more  importance  to  a  man  than 
being  a  good  lover,  but  they  do  not  occur  to  me  now; 
and  I  know  of  no  better  way  to  spend  my  life  than  in 
being  a  worthier  lover  each  morning  to  Mary  Romany. 
.  .  .  The  world  is  arranged  on  the  basis  that  all  matters 
of  real  value  are  relegated  to  the  after-hours\of  life — 
a  man's  so-called  work  coming  first.  On  the  contrary, 
a  man  loving  while  at  his  work — seems  to  be  conducting 


Lost  Valley  239 

himself  according  to  godly  arrangement.  His  is  apt  to 
be  symphonic  service.  Always  I  had  been  lifted  with 
Mary  Romany  near.  Many  times  in  the  midst  of  a 
long  day  together,  I  had  caught  myself  thinking  that 
we  had  been  companions  for  years,  and  had  not  grown 
tired  for  a  single  moment.  Just  a  glimpse,  this,  of 
thoughts  from  the  letters,  that  I  took  to  the  far  end  of 
the  Cul-de-sac,  and  read  and  read  again;  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  I  forgot  the  hours,  nor  that  the  old  Master 
laughed  when  I  came  home  with  the  night  to  Head 
quarters,  all  electric  from  happiness.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
great  lonely  condor  that  used  to  cross  the  valley,  a 
thousand  feet  above  my  seat  in  the  rocks.  Once  or 
twice  in  an  afternoon  I  would  watch  the  vast  moveless 
spread  of  wings,  the  head  turned  stiffly,  as  if  it  were 
wired  so,  one  death-familiar  eye  turned  down. 

"  You  must  have  sat  still  as  a  corpse,"  Romany  said, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  finally  to  tell  him  of  the  great 
bird's  sailings. 

I  took  several  commissions  of  a  secret  nature  to 
Libertad  during  the  period  of  quiescence.  The  trail  con 
tinued  open,  "  smilingly  open,"  as  Romany  said : 
"  almost  tempts  one  to  start  shipping  bullion."  He 
never  seemed  deeply  troubled  over  this  ultimate  difficulty, 
but  I  confess  it  was  wedged  in  my  mind. 

On  one  of  these  journeys  to  Libertad  (it  was  at  the 
end  of  my  fourth  month  in  the  valley),  I  found  un 
occupied  the  same  room  that  had  been  mine  the  first 
night  in  the  town.  My  mission  was  satisfactorily  com 
pleted.  Two  Americans  had  called  at  the  hotel  at  sun 
down,  and  asked  permission  to  ride  back  to  the  placer 
with  my  party  in  the  morning.  The  old  Master  was 


240  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

not  accepting  any  labor  at  this  period;  and  though  he 
took  great  pains  to  have  the  opposite  believed,  he  would 
have  found  a  way  to  refuse  capital  as  well. 

The  two  Americans  represented  themselves  as  retired 
business  men  of  the  Middle-western  States,  taking  a 
leisurely  "  look-see  "  around  this  rich  and  various  planet. 
They  were  afraid  of  nothing  in  the  realm  of  pure 
matter ;  rather  hard  and  fast  in  their  opinions  and  willing 
to  settle  any  subject  essentially  mundane.  They  had 
heard  that  Mr.  Nicholas  Romany  was  not  averse  to 
meeting  prospective  investors.  Of  course  I  welcomed 
the  thought,  but  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  them  for  the 
evening. 

And  so  I  sat  on  the  balcony  again  where  I  had  first 
winded  Tropicania,  and  first  heard  the  voice  of  Lillian 
Yarbin.  It  made  me  think  of  the  Yarbins  to  be  there 
— what  a  real  liking  I  had  for  them.  She  was  an  out- 
and-outer,  game  and  clever  and  big-hearted.  I  thought 
I  knew  at  this  time  what  she  meant  by  "  coming  from 
a  big  family,"  but  she  was  making  mighty  good  in  her 
own  establishment.  .  .  .  The  night  was  sumptuous  even 
for  equatorial  splendors.  Out  of  the  seething  constella 
tions,  wondrous  individuals  hung  low  as  if  in  jeopardy. 
I  thought  of  the  night  as  a  great  black  feminine  hat,  and 
these,  white  jewels  among  the  plumes.  I  fell  asleep 
over  the  third  or  fourth  of  a  series  of  the  old  Master's 
cheroots.  As  I  slept,  I  dreamed. 

The  exact  matters  of  light  and  darkness  and  move 
ment  never  cleared,  but  the  dream  was  exquisite  and 
about  Mary  Romany.  A  sense  of  her  nearness  lulled 
me.  The  strange  peace  of  it;  a  call  to  the  high  place 
of  the  world's  elect;  a  swift  realization  of  the  crudities 
of  life,  and  the  realities  of  love  and  inner  growth — 
out  of  all  these  came  the  thrilling  sense  that  Mary 


Lost  Valley  241 

Romany  was  near;  that  the  tip  of  her  third  finger 
pressed  against  my  lips — the  cushioned  tip  of  her  frail 
third  finger.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  as  if  I  were  awake,  but  surely  something 
swept  from  me — something  that  caught  the  starlight  in 
the  swiftest  glint.  And  there  was  a  fragrance  in  the 
air  that  I  used  to  sense  when  she  was  very  close — the 
yellow  rose,  windy  pine  forests,  the  tonic  freshness  of 
the  Sound. 

Perhaps  I  was  not  fully  awake  until  I  saw  the 
wooden  partition  shutting  off  the  next  balcony.  This 
was  the  realization  that  broke  upon  the  startling  love 
liness  of  the  dream.  .  .  .  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
next  room.  I  remember  wondering  if  a  slender  arm 
might  not  have  reached '  around  the  balcony  partition 
and  touched  my  face. 

There  was  pain  in  discovering  the  illusion,  but  those 
lingering  properties  of  fragrance,  and  the  reality  of  the 
waver  of  pale  reflection  before  the  stars,  remained  in  my 
mind  with  inexpressible  beauty.  There  was  a  renewed 
truth  to  her  tenderness,  a  consummate  foretaste  of  the 
gladness  when  the  Year  should  end,  and  a  great 
outpouring  of  thankfulness  from  my  heart  to  the 
woman  and  the  world.  ...  I  could  not  sleep 
again  that  night,  neither  on  the  balcony  nor  within — 
and  I  never  tried  harder  to  sleep,  tried  breathlessly — in 
the  hope  that  the  dream  might  come  again. 

12 

THE   next   morning   the   two   Americans   appeared, 

and  the  little  party  started  down  the  trail.     Teck  and 

Morgan  wearied  me  before  two  miles  were  done.     Sheer 

concentrate  worldiness.    I  was  out  of  training  for  such. 

16 


242  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

They  seemed  restless  to  impress  upon  me  their  station 
in  life,  as  do  only  those  who  are  not  certain  of  it.  ... 
A  few  remarks  startled  me.  As  "  retired  merchants  " 
they  became  unstable  in  my  mind.  A  laugh,  a  look,  a 
word — affected  me  with  their  uncommon  sophistication, 
the  hardness  of  hard  men's  feelings,  a  larger  compre 
hension  of  the  ruck  of  affairs  than  merchants  usually 
have.  ...  At  the  Pass — it  struck  me  like  a  sudden  illness 
that  these  men  had  come  for  Yarbin. 

Huntoon  was  at  the  Pass,  and  in  command,  Viringhy 
having  gone  to  the  valley.  My  friend  appeared  a  bit 
rakish.  I  assisted  Teck  and  Morgan  to  dismount  (they 
had  looked  the  part  of  retired  merchants  in  the  saddle), 
and  left  them  watching  the  lift  of  the  draw,  to  follow 
Huntoon  into  the  small  post  behind  the  rocks.  There 
was  sour  wine  on  his  table.  He  faced  me,  shutting  one 
eye  and  propping  up  the  other  with  his  forefinger. 

"  I  hardly  think  you  will  do  for  what  I  want, 
Huntoon." 

"  Oh,  to  be  shed  of  them  harsh  words,"  he  exclaimed, 
handing  me  a  glass  of  wine.  "  This  is  a  seminary  drink," 
he  added.  "  I  couldn't  get  a  start  on  vino  tinto  unless 
it  was  in  a  gun-powder  solution.  I  was  just  trying  to 
jockey  myself  into  believing  I  could.  What's  on?" 

And  now  Huntoon  attended  to  my  trouble.  He  told 
me  to  join  the  pair  outside  and  come  back  in  two 
minutes.  He'd  have  a  messenger  on  the  way,  mean 
while,  to  warn  Romany  to  get  the  Yarbins  out  of  sight. 

I  returned  to  Teck  and  Morgan  and  leisurely  ex 
plained  that  the  second  in  command  would  be  pleased 
to  receive  us  in  a  moment.  The  Americans  expected  a 
comic  opera  officer,  and  Huntoon  did  not  disappoint 
them.  He  had  on  Viringhy's  hot  gold-braided  coat,  over 


Lost  Valley  243 

a  soft  shirt;  and  the  devil  was  gently  fanning  his  mind. 
He  played  circus  for  Teck  and  Morgan,  until  I  caught 
a  nod  from  him  and  knew  it  was  safe  to  resume  the 
journey. 

Romany  welcomed  the  men.  ...  It  was  mid-after 
noon  when  he  gave  me  the  key  to  the  Vatican,  knowing 
I  had  something  to  say  to  the  Yarbins  hidden  there. 
Maconachie  had  the  guests  in  tow  showing  them  the 
placer.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time  alone,  I  entered  the  heart 
of  Tropicania's  defense.  I  found  Yarbin  pacing  up  and 
down  in  the  gloom.  The  woman  sat  upon  the  well- 
curbing,  in  the  midst  of  the  stacked  rifles,  and  waited 
for  me  to  speak. 

"  You'll  have  to  forgive  me,  if  I  had  a  wrong  im 
pulse,"  said  I.  "  But  if  I  did — all  you've  got  to  do  is 

to  go  back  into  Canaan "  and  then  I  explained  the 

exact  process  which  had  brought  them  there. 

"  You  had  a  lucky  hunch,  Ryerson,"  he  said.  "  That's 
the  hell  of  it." 

"  They  seem  more  interested  in  faces,  than/  in  the  valley 
activities  or  scenery,"  I  said,  "  but  even  if  they  are  man- 
hunters  and  tell  the  Chief  what  they  want  and  why, 
I'm  sure  Romany  will  take  the  stand  I  do — that  you 
belong  to  us  here,  and  that  all  before  that  is  none  of 
our  business." 

The  woman  stood  off  watching  us.  I  remembered 
queerly  her  saying  months  before,  that  Yarbin  and  I 
looked  well  together.  So  many  clean  laughing  little 
things,  she  had  done  for  us  all,  since  that  packet  of 
letters.  She  came  closer,  and  dropped  her  arm  over 
Yarbin's  shoulder.  In  Libertad,  they  had  seemed  re 
cently  to  have  met  from  far  ways  of  misunderstanding. 
Each  had  lived  hard — and  had  plunged.  Something  big 


244  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

had  come  to  them  since  then,  hiding  and  working 
together. 

"  Granting  that  they  want  me — and  somehow  I've 
got  a  shot  that  it's  so,"  Yarbin  said,  "  what  are  we 
going  to  do — go  or  stay  ?  " 

I  saw  a  possible  way,  but  I  didn't  care  to  speak  of 
it.  If  Teck  and  Morgan  came  to  the  valley  for  Yarbin, 
they  wouldn't  leave  contentedly  without  a  look-in  at  the 
Vatican.  The  chances  were  that  they  had  Orion  fixed 
to  watch  the  Pass.  We  might  manage  to  get  Yarbin 
across  in  the  night,  but  never  the  woman.  .  .  . 

I  think  Lillian  Yarbin  saw  my  idea  now.  Her  face 
grew  whiter.  The  man  was  saying: 

"  The  money  came  hard,  Ryerson.  We've  paid  the 
price.  It's  not  so  rotten  as  it  looks — quite.  Romany 
would  have  to  pay  me  off  in  gold.  Driven  around  the 
mountains,  around  the  world — I  couldn't  pack  a  lot  of 
gold.  ...  I  know  he's  square " 

"  Was  any  of  this  currency  he  has  been  using — 
marked?" 

"  I  think  not — but  it  was  big  stuff,"  he  said.  "  I 
wouldn't  mind,  if  we  could  stay  here  and  fight  it  out. 
I'd  be  willing  to  lose — if  I  had  a  hand  in  at  the 
finish " 

"  You'd  better  wait  to  see  what  the  Chief  says,"  I 
told  him,  troubled  by  the  dull  hopelessness  in  the  eyes 
of  the  woman.  "  It's  a  fight  to  the  death  with  him 
for  every  man  who  has  cast  his  labor  or  his  earnings 
into  this  big  pool.  We  can  hold  off  an  army,  but  at  the 
last,  we've  got  to  get  out  of  South  America  with  the 
bullion — and  that's  what  looks  like  the  hard  trick  to 
me.  .  .  .  Yet  somehow  we've  all  learned  to  trust  the  old 
Master.  When  it  looks  blackest,  he  turns  a  new  trick 


Lost  Valley  245 

and  the  air  is  clear  again.  We've  all  seen  him  do  it — 

one  big  one  before  you  came "  I  pointed  to  the 

stacked  rifles.  "  He  had  that  planned  forty  days  before 
it  was  pulled  off — and  we  had  all  given  up  our  last 
hope." 

"  That's  all  right,"  Yarbin  said  quickly.  "  I  heard  all 
about  Romany  and  that  he  was  square  long  before  I 
came  here,  but  he  can't  keep  that  pair  out  of  here 
indefinitely.  .  .  .  You'll  have  to  stay,  Lillian — yes,  that's 
it.  You  stay  here,  and  I'll  do  the  vanishing  act  for  the 
time.  .  .  .  Ryerson  can  help  me  get  across  the  Pass " 

"  I  thought  you'd  get  to  that,"  she  said.  "  I  had 
already  turned  it  down.  ...  If  Romany  thinks  we'd 
better  light  out — we'll  go  as  we  came,  together." 

".  .  .  Melton  isn't  well,"  she  whispered  to  me.  "  He's 
all  nerve  and  a  lion  in  a  scrap,  but  this  waiting,  hiding 
— this  slow  stuff — it's  got  him.  He'd  break,  but  for  me. 
.  .  .  You  run  along  and  find  out  how  Romany  stands 
on  the  matter — and  hurry  back." 

I  nodded.  It  was  more  than  ever  great  and  deep  to 
me — the  light  that  a  woman  brings  to  man's  mismanage 
ment,  when  she  loves  him. 

On  the  second  night  after  their  arrival,  Teck  and 
Morgan  delicately  confided  to  Romany  that  they  were 
out  after  Movrill,  alias  Yarbin.  Our  chief  had  passed 
one  of  his  worst  days  since  the  wound.  I  had  never 
noticed  his  hand  so  wasted,  as  that  night  under  the 
candles.  The  whiteness  of  his  mouth  and  nostrils  struck 
me  with  fear.  I  took  no  part  in  the  talk  at  Head 
quarters  that  night.  Teck,  the  sharper  of  these  foundry- 
products,  took  the  lead : 

"  This    fellow     Movrill    is    here — and    he's    called 


246  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Yarbin,"  said  he.  "  More  than  that,  he's  got  a  woman 
with  him.  You're  hiding  them,  Romany.  So  far  as  I 
can  see,  your  position  here  isn't  one  that  entitles  you 
to  get  America — hell,  I  mean  North  America — the 
States — after  you " 

I  turned  to  the  old  Master.  He  was  lying  on  his 
cot,  his  hand  covering  his  eyes.  His  courage  had  never 
ceased  to  thrill  me,  and  the  manner  of  his  conquests 
over  our  adversaries.  All  that  Teck  said  (with  the 
thicker  Morgan  smiling  sourly  behind  him)  struck  me 
as  hard  world's  truth.  I  was  anxious  for  Romany's 
answer,  and  darkly  apprehensive  for  the  pair  in  the 
Vatican. 

"  It  is  thus  that  my  loves  have  died,"  came  slowly 
from  Romany's  ashen  lips. 

"  Huh  ? "  broke  from  Teck ;  and  from  Morgan, 
"Huh?" 

Romany  uncovered  his  face  and  smiled.  "  What 
were  you  saying,  Mr.  Teck?  .  .  .  Tom,  pass  Mr.  Morgan 
a  cheroot." 

Teck  wasn't  penetrable  enough  to  see  that  he  was 
being  laughed  at.  He  thought  the  sick  man's  brain 
rambled,  and  endeavored  to  call  it  back  now  and  hold 
it,  by  re-stating  his  case  with  more  force  and  impudence. 
He  seemed  familiarly  acquainted  with  brains  that 
rambled. 

"  I've  always  noticed,"  Romany  said  quietly,  "  that 
between  two  convictions  on  a  certain  subject,  the  result 
is  better  if  I  use  my  own." 

"  I  don't  get  you  quite,"  said  Teck. 

"  Now,  I'm  an  old  man,"  Romany  resumed  apologeti 
cally.  (I  felt  that  something  was  to  happen  when  this 
intonation  began.)  "  I  may  be  out  of  touch  with  worldly 


Lost  Valley  247 

things;  in  fact,  an  old  man  loses  his  grip  on  matters 
of  this  world " 

"  Quite  so/'  said  Teck. 

"  And  yet  old  men  are  apt  to  be  stubborn " 

"  Sure." 

"  You  say — so  far  as  you  can  see,  my  position  doesn't 
entitle  me  to  get  North  America  down  on  me  by  pro 
tecting  this — what  is  the  gentleman's  name  ?  " 

"  Movrill — Yarbin  here,"  Teck  answered  impatiently. 
.  .  .  They  sat  on  the  edge  of  their  chairs.  Morgan's 
hands  gripped  his  knees.  Teck  twirled  his  hat 
nervously. 

"  You've  used  a  great  deal  of  judgment  as  well  as 
penetration,"  said  Romany. 

"  That's  our  business.  What  were  you  going  to 
say  before  ?  " 

"Only  that  I  like  my  conviction  better  than  yours." 

"Which  means ?" 

"  That  if  North  America  wishes  to  come  and  get 
this  man  you  say  is  here,  but  whom  you  can't  find,  I'll 
be  glad  to  entertain  North  America " 

Teck  whitened  and  Morgan  turned  evil. 

"  I  could  use  North  America,"  Romany  added  softly. 

Morgan  now  spoke.  "  We  came  here  to  get  this 
man.  We  took  it  that  you  were  straight,  in  spite  of 
what  we  heard  on  the  way.  We've  got  you — what's 
the  use  of  writhing  and  talking  big?" 

"  It's  just  a  way  I  have,"  Romany  said. 

"  Our  man  is  in  the  big  church — that's  the  truth  of 
it,"  Morgan  said,  in  a  sudden  lifting  voice. 

"Oh,  by  the  way — you  haven't  seen  our  arsenal?" 
Romany  asked,  as  quietly  as  before.  "  We  call  that  old 
ruin  '  the  Vatican.'  " 


248  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

I  think  I  was  more  startled  than  either  of  the  two 
visitors.  They  glanced  at  each  other.  They  had  been 
everywhere  else. 

"  No,  we  haven't  seen  the  arsenal,"  Teck  replied, 
eyeing  me.  "  We've  been  steered  away  from  there." 

"  I  suppose  my  boys  are  a  bit  chary  about  the  gun 
room.  There's  a  lot  of  blasting  powder  there.  You'll 
always  find  soldiers  that  way,  and  I  haven't  been  on 
my  feet  lately — any  more  than  necessary.  Sometime 
you'll  have  to  see  the  arsenal — to-morrow  or  next 
day " 

Teck  arose,  walked  to  the  edge  of  Romany's  cot, 
and  said  in  a  low  tone :  "  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do — 
we'll  shut  up,  and  get  out  of  here,  if  you'll  let  us  see 
that  arsenal  to-night — now." 

Romany  appeared  perturbed.  "  Nonsense,  the  place 
isn't  adequately  lit.  You  couldn't  do  it  justice  after 
dark.  I'm  sure  the  men  wouldn't  like  it." 

Teck  turned  to  his  companion  with  a  scornful  smile. 
Black  clouds  had  settled  upon  my  understanding. 

"  You're  dam'  particular  about  your  men  all  of  a 
sudden,"  said  Morgan. 

"  I  suppose  I  am,"  the  old  man  replied  wearily. 

"  I  tell  you,  Romany,  you're  making  a  big 
mistake "  Teck  broke  in. 

"  I've  always  been  told  that " 

"  We're  out  here  for  Yarbin,  remember  that  We'll 
get  him  if  we  have  to  hang  on  to  the  finish,  or  get 
Ecuador  and  Peru  to  help  us." 

"  And  North  America " 

Romany's  coolness  blunted  Morgan's  tendency  to 
bluster,  as  he  added:  "We'll  get  the  pair  if  they're 
turned  loose.  Sure — we  could  go  through  the  church — 


Lost  Valley  249 

in  a  day  or  two.  But  we'd  catch  'em  with  the  goods 
to-night " 

The  old  Master  turned  to  me. 

"  Tom — if  these  gentlemen  must  see  the  Vatican  to 
night,  go  with  them — but  do  be  careful  with  the  lanterns. 
There's  a  lot  of  powder  there.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  I  can't  go 
with  you "  he  added  in  apology. 

13 

AN  analysis  of  my  sensations  could  hardly  be  com 
pressed  into  a  page.  I  obeyed,  yet  every  sense  was 
straining  for  some  token  of  deeper  understanding.  I 
was  Zacharias  craving  before  the  Lord  for  a  sign.  .  .  . 
None  was  offered,  and  I  left  Headquarters  with  nothing 
in  my  consciousness,  save  the  mild  tired  glance  of  the 
sick  man.  .  .  .  The  great  door  of  the  Vatican  swung 
and  locked  upon  us. 

Teck  and  Morgan  now  suffered  the  pangs  of  re 
action.  They  feared  a  trick — even  imprisonment — but 
dared  not  withdraw.  I  shared  the  thought  that  the 
Yarbins  had  been  taken  out,  and  Teck  and  Morgan  were 
to  be  quieted  in  stone;  that  I  was  an  escort  to  pros 
pective  prisoners,  and  must  trust  Romany  to  detach  me 
at  the  proper  time.  .  .  . 

Yarbin  and  the  woman  were  not  in  the  Vatican — 
only  tiers  and  stacks  of  rifles,  ammunition  boxes,  pro 
visions,  and  other  properties.  The  search  lasted  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  The  two  would  have  looked  longer,  but 
for  the  growing  fear  that  they  might  not  be  allowed 
exit  as  cheerfully  as  entrance. 

There  was  something  obscene  in  the  present  moods 
of  these  men.  They  stood  on  either  side,  as  I  unlocked 


250  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  door.  We  walked  back  to  Headquarters  without 
words.  .  .  .  Alone  with  Romany  that  night,  I  waited 
for  him  to  speak;  and  at  length  in  the  silence,  arose  to 
go  to  my  cot. 

"  Tom,"  he  said,  halting  me,  "  you  don't  think  I'm 
using  you  right,  do  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "only  now  and  then,  when  I 
find  myself  in  the  dark — quite  as  much  in  the  dark,  for 
instance,  as  these  two  mouthy  man-hunters — I  get  the 
idea  that  you  are  a  little  afraid  to  trust  me." 

"  It  isn't  so,  Tom.  Not  a  bit  so.  But  I  can't  bring 
myself  to  show  my  hand.  Again  and  again  I've  done 
it — and  lost.  It's  superstition.  It's  the  game  to  win  or 
lose  here;  the  game  to  get  away  after  we've  washed  all 
the  gold  we  can,  and  that's  not  so  far  off.  I'd  trust 
you,  with  my  life.  You  are  entrusted  with  a  life  dearer 
than  mine — but  I  can't  let  go  to  any  one  these  poor 
fortunes  of  Tropicania,  unless  .  .  .  you'll  know  all,  in 
that  event.  The  whole  plan,  the  whole  campaign,  goes 
to  you.  The  papers  connected  are  written.  I  carry 
them  night  and  day.  As  for  you,  Tom,  you're  all  that 
I  could  ask.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  see — 
that's  a  whole  lot." 

Teck  broke  his  word,  though  I  doubt  if  a  shock  was 
experienced  anywhere.  For  two  days  longer  the  pair 
cluttered  Tropicania,  and  met  with  unfailing  courtesy; 
twice  more  they  demanded — it  was  their  way  of  asking 
— to  enter  the  Vatican,  and  were  allowed.  As  I  saw  them 
finally  across  the  Pass,  I  had  the  novelty  of  feeling  a 
keen  pleasure  in  their  discomfiture.  Weeks  afterward, 
the  man-hunters  were  still  in  Libertad.  The  valley  of 
Tropicania  saw  the  Yarbins  no  more.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
fragile  incident  in  this  interval,  inserted  here  because  at 


Lost  Valley  251 

the  time  I  believed  it  a  particularity  of  the  Romany 
character.  At  the  end  of  a  day  very  shortly  after  the 
departure  of  the  man-hunters,  I  was  preparing  to  ride 
to  the  Pass  to  meet  a  small  pack-train  from  Libertad 
to  bring  mails  and  provisions.  There  was  invariably 
an  agony  of  suspense  for  me  in  the  last  hours  of  letter 
expectation.  Her  father  professed  to  be  expert  in  all 
the  stages  of  my  seizure.  On  this  day,  as  the  hour 
approached  for  me  to  start,  Romany  asked  if  I  could 
locate  Maconachie  for  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  settlement,  a  miner  stopped  snort 
ing  in  a  wash-basin  long  enough  to  inform  me  that  he 
had  seen  Mr.  Mac  pass  a  half-hour  before,  on  the  way 
up-stream  with  his  casting-rod.  By  this  time  it  was 
dark,  and  far  back  I  heard  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the 
packers  corralling  the  mules.  Not  without  suspicion 
now  that  the  Chief  was  enjoying  his  pretext  to  keep  me 
from  the  mails,  I  pushed  on  hallooing — until  I  heard 
the  baritone.  There  wasn't  a  fish  that  would  have  come 
up  to  "Lines  of  white  on  a  sullen  sea"  but  Mac  had 
his  own  way  of  relieving  his  mind  of  the  day's  routine. 
We  walked  back  in  silence  to  Headquarters.  The  old 
Master  came  in,  laughing  at  his  weakness,  handed  me 
two  letters,  with  a  friendly  grip  on  the  shoulder,  and 
beckoned  Maconachie  to  his  desk  as  I  chose  a  trusty 
lantern  to  depart.  .  .  . 

One  morning,  several  weeks  later,  I  was  passing 
behind  a  picket-line,  temporarily  stretched  on  the  slope 
before  the  Vatican.  Romany  was  standing  by  the  great 
iron  door.  Noticing  a  cartridge  up-turned  in  the  mud, 
I  stooped  to  get  it.  I  must  have  been  far  away  in  my 
thoughts ;  certainly  the  existence  of  the  mules  was  for  the 
moment  remote  from  my  world.  .  .  .  An  instant's  picture 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of  the  savage  gray  beast — poor  Santell's  four-mile  mule, 
her  head  veered  about  to  me,  the  white  of  her  eyes  as 
she  leaned  against  her  halter-shanks — and  a  sudden 
obliteration  of  sunlight. 

She  had  leveled  a  hind  foot  at  my  head.  ...  I  was 
in  the  coolness  and  dark,  and  voices  reached  me.  Again 
and  again  waves  carried  me  to  some  point,  where  the 
voices  began  to  contain  words  for  my  understanding — 
when  I  would  lose  grasp  and  sink  once  more.  Finally, 
I  drew  close  enough  to  the  border-land  to  sense  the 
presence  of  Mary  Romany.  Even  then,  the  unreality 
of  it  obtruded,  but  I  put  it  away  to  live  the  happiness 
in  full.  .  .  .  She  was  very  near  and  whispering,  her  lips 
close  to  mine — an  unspeakable  rapture,  her  nearness. 
...  I  did  not  understand  her  words,  nor  wished  to.  I 
feared  to  open  my  eyes  lest  the  illusion  vanish.  There 
was  something  finished  in  the  peace  and  delight  of  this 
self-deception,  and  the  curious  detail  and  delicacy  of  it 
all.  ...  At  last  I  heard  Romany  say  softly: 

"  He's  all  right,  dear,  and  coming  to.  ...  Better 
run  back  now — unless " 

"  Yes,  yes — but  tell  me  everything " 

I  felt  a  breath  upon  my  cheek.  I  seemed  then  to 
open  my  eyes — but  moments  must  have  passed.  When  I 
could  actually  use  my  material  senses — only  Romany  was 
there. 

They  had  taken  me  to  the  Vatican.     We  were  alone. 

"  It  was  a  squeak,  Tom,  my  son,"  he  said.  "  She 
just  grazed  you " 

I  stared  at  him  for  long. 

"Just  creased,"  he  added,  "but  when  I  first  got  to 
you,  I  thought  you  were  stove  in.  ...  It's  a  happy  day, 
Tom." 


Lost  Valley  253 

"  I  surely  had  a  pretty  dream,"  I  answered,  and  fell 
to  recalling  it  piece  by  piece.  .  .  . 

The  gray  mule  wasn't  shod — all  thanks  to  that. 
There  is  a  scar  above  my  temple,  where  a  man's  hair 
is  first  to  whiten.  And  there  was  a  forty-eight  hour 
headache — and  the  rest  was  the  vision  that  had  come  and 
left  no  trace.  .  .  .  That  same  afternoon  I  went  back 
alone  to  the  Vatican,  Romany  smiling  as  I  left.  There 
was  no  fallen  handkerchief,  no  flower  lying  on  the  dust- 
less  stone-pavement  of  the  ancient  ruin;  not  so  much 
as  the  pressure  of  a  woman's  heel. 

I  had  heard  of  a  sudden  terrible  need,  a  closeness 
to  death,  calling  the  spirit  of  a  loved  one  across  the 
world.  These  things  are  traditions  of  soldiers  and  their 
mothers.  ...  As  the  hours  drew  on,  the  baser  faculties 
clutched  more  closely  the  illusion  of  it  all.  Yet  there 
was  a  thrilling  sanction  of  our  oneness  even  in  that. 
She  had  answered  the  call — a  desperate  call  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  brain. 

I  did  not  mention  the  matter  to  Romany.  I  might 
as  well  have  asked  him  where  he  stored  the  gold  from 
the  Calderon  dredge,  or  where  he  had  hidden  the 
Yarbins. 

And  yet  these  affairs  uncased  themselves  one  after 
another  in  due  season — sometimes  startlingly — and  other 
matters  of  greater  bearing.  There  was  another  period 
of  abundant  toil  and  amazing  fruitfulness,  after  my 
grazing  concussion  with  the  old  gray's  hoof.  I  had 
spent  eight  months  in  the  valley.  The  old  Master 
beckoned  me  to  the  side  of  his  cot.  It  was  night. 

"  Tom,"  he  said,  "  is  Huntoon  apt  to  break  training 
badly?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  and  then  I  qualified  a  .trifle. 


254  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  If  he  had  more  rope — more  responsibility " 

Romany  suggested. 

"  He'd  be  all  the  safer." 

"  I  think  I  shall  leave  him  in  charge  of  the  fighting- 
end,"  he  said. 

A  dozen  questions  formed  in  my  mind  with  the 
dawning  intelligence  that  the  time  had  come  for  me  to 
be  answered  in  part.  I  merely  asked,  however :  "  But 
what  of  Viringhy  ?  " 

"  He  shall  go  with  me — also  Leek  and  fifty  chosen 
men." 

"  And  then "  said  I,  thinking  of  Orion's 

ultimatum,  and  the  big  force  that  had  been  watching  the 
Pass  so  long,  while  Tropicania  dredged  and  washed. 

"  The  time  has  come,"  Romany  went  on,"  when  we 
must  dispose  of  the  sands  of  Pactolus." 

"  Meaning  gold,"  said  I. 

"  Exactly.  It's  a  long  hard  journey,  and  will  require 
at  the  outside,  counting  for  small  delays — eight  weeks. 
You  are  to  take  my  place  here.  You  are  to  be  Romany, 
while  Huntoon  becomes  Viringhy.  I  leave  Huntoon 
because  he  is  the  more  valuable  soldier." 

"  And  I " 

"  Because  you  are  the  best  man  to  take  my  place." 

I  was  wondering  if  the  men  thought  so,  when 
Romany  added :  "  You  have  brought  me  something 
more  than  you  know — something  to  hold  fast  to  beside 
gold,  since  poor  Santell  went  out.  .  .  .  To-morrow  I  shall 
talk  with  the  men.  You  see,  we've  got  too  much  money 
here.  We've  won  big  at  this  moment,  even  if  the  dredge 
never  bit  up  another  shovel  of  river-bed.  At  least  we've 
won,  when  we  get  this  gold  safely  in  the  States.  This 
done,  I  can  come  back  here  and  tell  the  men  of  their 


Lost  Valley  255 

winnings.  Meanwhile,  the  two  months'  riffle  while  I'm 
gone  and  the  rest — as  long  as  we  care  to  stay — will 
be  pure  plush." 

"  But," — I  could  wait  no  longer — "  isn't  Orion  wait 
ing  for  you  to  start  something  in  the  way  of  getting 
the  gold  out  ?  " 

"  If  Huntoon  does  his  part,  holding  the  Pass — Orion 
will  never  know  that  the  gold  nor  the  party  of  fifty  has 
left  Tropicania." 

I  believed  this  against  what  seemed  absolutely  con 
trary  knowledge. 

"  Yes,"  Romany  went  on,  "  there  is  a  way.  I  couldn't 
have  brought  this  thing  about  without  it.  I  had  to  have 
a  complete  deck  of  trick  cards  before  I  began.  I  haven't 
played  them  all  yet." 

A  strange  mingling  of  fear  and  affection  he  must 
have  read  in  my  face,  for  he  added: 

"  And  yet,  Tom — if  I  had  it  to  do  over  again  I 
shouldn't  lay  so  much  stress  upon  the  perfection  of 
trickery.  Sands  o'  Pactolus  are  responsible  for  that.  .  .  . 
Our  steamer,  the  Alcyone,  is  waiting  for  us  now  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Rio  Clara  seventy  miles  down  the  coast. 
You  saw  her — the  steamer  that  occupied  Orion  at  the 
Headland  while  the  mule-train  came  over  the  Pass  with 
ammunition — a  neat  and  new  little  packet.  She'll  take 
us  up  to  California,  probably  San  Diego.  Two  weeks 
there  making  the  assay,  establishing  a  Tropicania  office, 
paying  off  the  men.  I'll  leave  Leek  in  charge  there — 
and  steam  back  to  the  Clara  and  here.  The  gold  already 
converted  into  money  will  be  divided  among  my  men. 
Each  man  shall  have  paper  representing  his  share,  cash 
able  at  our  California  office.  I'll  breathe  more  easily 
then.  Meanwhile  the  new  gold  will  be  ready,  and  we'll 


• 

256  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

hang  on  as  long  as  we  care  to,  before  making  a  final 
getaway.  The  ship  will  wait  for  us  back  in  the  Clara. 
Its  unknown  coast.  .  .  .  That's  the  whole  proposition " 

1  was  thinking  of  the  Yarbins,  but  would  not  ask. 
"  And  my  work  ?  "  said  I. 

"  It  is  what  mine  would  be  if  I  were  here.  Only 
there  are  matters  which  you  must  know.  And  I  shall 
leave  you  papers  covering  everything.  They  are  care 
fully  written." 

"  But  you  aren't  in  shape — not  physically  fit  for  such 
a  journey." 

"  You  don't  know  the  old  man,  Tom.  I  believe  a 
man  can  do  what  he  must.  If  I  feared  physical  pain,  I 
wouldn't  be  in  this  business.  Why,  Tom,  I've  suffered 
so  much  I'd  break  down  if  the  pain  stopped  all  at  once. 
.  .  .  Then  I've  been  laying  up  for  months,  preparing  for 
this.  My  wound  is  healed,  in  a  way.  .  .  .  All  of  which 
means  I  shall  do  my  part." 

The  next  day  marked  a  quiet  rush  of  preparation. 
Romany  talked  to  the  men  singly  and  in  company.  The 
answer  in  the  main  was  silence  and  good  faith.  I 
marvelled  at  Romany's  influence,  since  they  permitted 
him  to. leave  the  valley  with  almost  a  year's  gold.  The 
selection  of  the  fifty  was  a  complicated  process  requiring 
a  forenoon.  .  .  .  That  night  at  dusk  the  party  gathered 
in  the  Vatican.  Huntoon  was  at  the  Pass.  I  was  left 
in  the  valley  with  the  packet  of  Romany  papers  still 
unread.  ...  At  ten  o'clock  Romany  sent  for  me — met 
me  at  the  iron  door,  embraced  me  in  a  quick  eager  way 
— and  the  sally-port  shut  upon  him,  leaving  me  on  the 
outside. 

.  .  .  The  next  morning — when  Tropicania  was  in 
tently  set  for  trouble  from  Orion,  it  was  found  that  the 


Lost  Valley  257 

company  had  vanished.  The  Vatican  was  empty.  I 
alone  knew  the  explanation,  for  my  night  had  been  spent 
in  the  candle-light  with  her  father's  papers. 

14 

THE  old  Master  had  gathered  good  men  about  him — 
valuable  in  their  particular  lines,  mechanical  and  scien 
tific;  and  mining  experts  who  had  been  graduated  both 
from  technical  schools  and  eldoradoes  around  the  world. 
The  many  were  illiterate,  closer  to  labor  than  to  manage 
ment;  but  among  the  latter  was  the  little  company  that 
Romany  had  brought  from  the  States — men  from  the 
lower  walks,  but  with  a  domestic  ideal  and  a  dream  of 
independence.  These  had  left  their  women  and  were 
working  for  them — a  fact  which  kept  them  rather  true 
to  themselves.  Among  the  fifty  that  had  gone  with 
Romany  were  a  considerable  number  of  this  class,  who 
declared  themselves  content  with  the  percentage  of  win 
nings  to  date,  as  estimated  by  the  Chief.  I  found  also 
that  a  goodly  portion  of  the  undesirables  had  been  asked 
to  go — a  valuable  bit  of  Romany  foresight. 

The  women  who  had  come  down  from  Guayaquil 
were  not  home-makers.  Even  if  they  had  been,  there 
was  too  much  of  gambler's  insecurity  in  the  air.  The 
gold-seekers  of  Tropicania  were  drawing  more  than 
wages.  They  had  an  interest  in  the  final  settlement.  It 
takes  a  certain  amount  of  stamina  to  support  a  dream  of 
sizable  fortune ;  rather  a  test  of  manhood,  this.  Romany 
was  naturally  fitted,  and  possessed  the  hardening  of  a 
life  training,  to  cope  with  the  spirits  of  men  inflamed 
with  large  earnings,  restless  dreams  and  fluent  chances. 
Most  of  these  men  were  built  naturally  for  routine.  The 
17 


258  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

essential  indefiniteness  of  their  ultimate  fortune  in 
Tropicania  and  the  secrecy  of  Romany's  policy,  which 
perforce  was  mine, — gave  rise  in  their  minds  to  a  sus 
picion  of  treachery.  I  had  not  the  old  Master's  life- 
record  of  a  gamester  absolutely  square,  for  the  eyes 
of  the  men  down  in  the  river-work. 

While  subordinate  I  had  many  friends.  Now  I  was 
sure  of  none,  save  Huntoon.  Chances  favored  a  reason 
ably  good  result  of  my  leadership  on  the  general  ten 
dency  of  men  to  sit  tight — until  the  eight  weeks  were 
over.  But  if  anything  happened  to  detain  Romany,  I 
felt  that  I  should  have  on  my  hands,  a  war  indeed. 

The  departure  of  fifty-odd  men,  without  disturbing 
Orion,  at  first  redounded  to  the  greater  glory  of  the 
absent  leader.  It  was  considered  one  of  his  perfect 
things.  The  laugh,  however,  which  rippled  along  the 
river-bed  that  interminable  first  day  of  my  command — 
changed  to  silence  with  the  night.  The  men  were  think 
ing  and  whispering.  .  .  .  There  was  a  way  out  of  the 
valley  which  they  did  not  know — and  which  I  knew,  and 
fifty  others  knew.  .  .  .  What  was  to  prevent  me  or  one 
of  the  fifty  from  throwing  the  secret  to  Orion?  The 
valley  would  then  become  a  pen  of  loot  and  slaughter. 
.  .  .  Again,  their  earnings  of  months,  millions,  had  gone 
through  some  secret  passage  to  the  outer  world.  What 
was  to  prevent  Romany  and  even  the  fifty  betraying  the 
rest  for  a  monstrous  division?  Or  was  it  out  of  the 
question  for  the  fifty  to  mutiny,  kill  Romany,  and  close 
the  black  chapter  by  turning  Orion  into  the  valley,  to 
slay  the  betrayed?  These  were  thoughts  of  death  and 
dissolution ;  and  steadily  the  fear  grew  in  the  valley  that 
Orion  might  rush  in  by  the  way  the  fifty  went  forth. 
And  I  felt  these  thoughts  gathering  about  my  head. 


Lost  Valley  259 

I  had  come  late  and  brought  neither  muscle,  nor  expert 
knowledge.  I  was  one  of  Romany's  secrets.  It  was 
hard  for  the  miners,  many  of  them  gold-poisoned;  and 
each  night  I  took  the  day's  yield  of  yellow — and  the  men 
knew  no  more  of  it.  I  watched  with  an  anxious  heart 
for  the  day  that  should  end  my  leadership. 

Though  Romany  had  conducted  his  departure  in  such 
a  way  that  the  Vatican  was  not  at  first  suspected  of  con 
taining  the  secret  avenue  of  egress,  it  was  inevitable 
that  the  combined  thinking  of  the  whole  placer-crew 
should  settle  upon  this  fact.  I  took  Maconachie  and  a  few 
others  into  the  Vatican  shortly  after  the  Chief  had  gone, 
to  impress  the  idea  that  whether  it  was  there  or  not,  the 
way  out  certainly  was  not  obvious.  I  found  Maconachie 
deeply  interested  in  the  cistern.  The  truth  is,  one  would 
have  had  to  wreck  the  old  structure  to  learn  its  secrets. 

The  fourth  or  western  wall  of  the  ruin  was  the 
mountain  itself,  lined  with  a  thin  tissue  of  stone,  in  no 
way  corresponding,  except  in  appearance,  to  the  three 
great  outer  walls,  whose  two  corners  were  massive 
monoliths,  and  the  masonry  of  which  was  from  two  to 
three  feet  through.  The  lower  rocks  were  in  many 
places  unmortared,  of  a  size  calculable  only  in  tonnage, 
and  fitted  to  each  other  so  precisely  that  a  pin  could  not 
be  driven  into  the  jointures. 

The  interior  of  the  Vatican  was  absolutely  feature 
less,  except  for  the  cistern  and  the  original  megalithic 
monument,— a  huge  undressed  slab  lying  horizontally, 
and  flush  with  the  mountain-wall.  This  was  the  altar- 
stone,  the  very  heart  of  the  Quichuan  civilization.  Here 
the  olden  sacrifices  had  been  made  to  the  sun  and  fire 


260  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

gods.  It  had  not  been  brought  to  the  Vatican ;  the 
latter  was  a  temple  builded  around  it,  ancient  when 
Pizarro  came  to  Peru.  There  was  not  a  remnant  of 
Christian  feature— :no  niche  sacred  to  the  relics.  The 
Vatican  was  pure  pagan. 

It  was  a  painstaking  manuscript  which  the  old  Master 
left  for  me  on  the  night  he  vanished  with  the  fifty. 

First  of  all  I  read  his  gossipy  monograph  on  Huayana 
Capac,  the  great  Incan  king,  whose  ancestral  seats  were 
on  the  shores  of  Titicaca  a  thousand  years  ago;  of  his 
favorite  son  Atahualpa,  and  the  boy's  mother,  the 
Princess  of  Quito;  of  his  legitimate  son,  Huascar,  en 
raged  because  the  great  Empire  was  given  to  the  favor 
ite.  Wars  of  these  two  sons  and  their  sons,  great  flights 
and  expeditions  northward,  and  establishments  of  em 
pire — it  was  upon  the  waning  of  these  aboriginal  cam 
paigns  that  Pizarro  and  the  Spaniards  appeared. 

The  ruins  of  Tropicania  were  co-eval  with  the  famous 
ruins  of  Tiahuanacu  in  Bolivia.  The  ancient  Peruvians 
were  the  greatest  road-builders;  they  moved  mountains, 
tongued  and  grooved  great  rocks;  preserved  in  every 
temple  a  subterranean  arcanum  for  the  priests.  Every 
temple-door  faced  the  East.  They  did  not  know  the 
use  of  the  arch,  and  overcame  this  handicap  by  making 
the  portals  narrower  at  the  lintel  than  at  the  threshold. 
This  peculiarity,  I  found,  was  as  inevitable  in  the  old 
Incan  ruins,  as  the  orientation  of  the  doors. 

The  monograph  went  on  to  state  how  granite  hills 
were  shaped;  how  steps  and  tunnels  were  made;  and 
dealt  intimately  with  tombs,  altars,  sun-dials,  terraced 
fields,  sunken  gardens,  fountains.  It  described  the  amaz 
ing  facility  with  which  the  rivers  were  diverted;  and 


Lost  Valley  261 

how  earthquakes  and  volcanic  eccentricities  were  turned 
to  use  and  ornament  by  these  mighty  men  of  the  rocks 
— these  masters  of  the  Andes. 

So  I  entered  the  Vatican  with  awe.  The  great  door 
was  locked  behind,  and  I  stood  alone  before  the  altar, 
which  had  run  red  with  the  blood  of  their  fairest  sons 
and  daughters.  I  felt  the  evil  of  utilizing  the  cunning 
of  this  ancient  people — subverting  its  strength  and  skill 
and  mastery  to  the  lust  of  modern  fortune-hunting. 

The  sunlight  came  down  through  the  broken 
superstructure  and  fell  upon  the  altar-stone.  The  plat 
form  behind,  upon  which  the  priests  had  stood,  was  a 
massive  stone  block,  in  which  three  steps  of  huge  size 
were  hewn  on  either  side.  From  the  platform,  the  altar- 
rock  was  waist-high  to  a  man,  and  was  filled  with  round 
holes  of  varied  diameters.  The  document  had  minutely 
described  this  feature,  furnishing  a  chart  of  the  ancient 
bores.  A  certain  three,  marked  3 — 13 — 43,  in  a  peculiar 
system  of  enumeration,  involved  the  entrance  to  the 
secret  passage.  These  were  to  be  filled  with  water,  as 
nearly  as  possible  at  the  same  time.  To  fill  all,  or  any 
other  but  these  three  bores,  meant  failure.  The  key- 
pipes  were  clear  in  my  mind  after  a  moment's  study, 
and  the  water  at  hand. 

The  lining  of  the  mountain-wall  was  formed  from 
great  panels  of  trachyte,  taller  than  a  man,  and  three  feet 
wide.  The  rock  was  dressed,  the  fittings  perfect.  In 
the  lower  tier,  there  were  twenty  panels.  Number  Seven 
from  the  north  was  the  door  of  the  passage.  It  was 
absolutely  identical  with  the  others  in  weathering,  and 
in  its  unbroken  edges.  So  perfect  was  the  inner  arrange 
ment,  that  its  use,  former  and  recent,  had  left  not  the 
faintest  trace  of  wear.  I  put  my  weight  against  this 


262  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

panel,  and  the  mountain  itself  could  not  have  felt  more 
rigid.  ...  And  now  I  glanced  again  at  the  following 
paragraph  of  Romany's  writing: 

"The  big  trachyte,  Number  Seven,  is  hung  on  a  horizontal 
bronze  pin.  Unlocked  by  a  certain  exact  water  pressure,  the 
weight  of  the  hand  against  the  lower  part  of  the  panel  is  sufficient 
to  swing  it  inward,  and  the  upper  half  outward.  ...  A 
pint  of  water  is  enough  for  each  of  the  three  bores,  but  they  must 
be  filled  as  nearly  as  possible  at  the  same  time.  Mark  forty 
seconds  on  your  watch  after  pouring,  while  the  water  sinks  from 
sight.  At  the  end  of  this  interval  the  panel  will  yield  to  the 
pressure  of  the  hand  for  a  space  of  seven  or  eight  seconds,  but  not 
longer.  No  sound  is  heard  from  the  withdrawing  locks.  If  this 
exact  interval  of  seven  or  eight  seconds  is  allowed  to  elapse,  the 
water-weight  passing  out  from  the  lock-reservoir  will  diminish 
enough  for  the  bolts  to  spring  back  to  their  original  position.  Or  if 
one  presses  too  soon,  the  bolts  will  not  have  unlocked.  Water 
placed  in  all  the  bores  will  never  draw  the  lock  from  the  back  of 
the  panel.  Water  placed  in  any  one  of  the  bores  other  than  the 
three  will  clog  the  intricate  arrangement  of  the  inner  passages  in 
the  rock — and  no  result  will  be  obtained." 

Here  her  father  supplied  a  long  personal  note,  re 
garding  the  manner  in  which  this  knowledge  had  been 
obtained — an  extended  and  interesting  story  in  itself. 
The  links  and  clues  he  had  followed  showed  me  more 
than  ever  the  character  of  this  absorbing  adventurer. 
I  recalled  the  hours  he  had  spent  upon  this  writing. 
There  was  a  jovial  tenderness  here  and  there;  delicate 
approaches  to  the  fine  intimacy  so  hard  for  men  to  ex 
press  afield,  but  which  we  had  approached. 

He  touched  upon  his  solitary  labor  of  many  days  in 
the  Vatican,  after  bringing  his  bridge-builders  from  the 
Pass  to  construct  the  great  iron  door.  This  done,  he 
had  undertaken  alone  to  test  the  mysterious  directions 
in  his  possession.  The  chief  trouble,  he  said,  was  to 
restrain  his  own  scepticism.  He  had  been  forced  to 


Lost  Valley  263 

clear  the  bores  with  compressed  air;  the  bronze  pin  of 
the  trick  panel  had  been  in  a  bad  state  of  corrosion. 
Many  times  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  breaking  Panel 
Seven  with  a  charge  of  powder,  but  his  patience  had 
triumphed  over  doubt,  and  the  perfection  of  the  original 
work  had  prevailed  to  bring  success  without  this  destroy 
ing  measure.  Finally  gaining  entrance,  he  had  gone 
over  the  entire  mechanism  cleaning  and  oiling. 

At  last,  when  the  sun  had  crept  from  the  altar  to  the 
eastern  wall,  I  stood  where  the  ancient  priests  had  bent 
in  "  sacred "  murder  over  their  victims — a  vessel  of 
water  in  my  hand  and  awe  pervading  my  heart.  ...  I 
poured,  waited  for  the  second-hand  of  my  watch  to  mark 
off  the  forty  seconds — then  turned  to  Panel  Seven  and 
rested  my  knee  against  the  lower  part.  The  great  stone 
swung  noiselessly  inward.  Amply  stocked  with  matches 
and  candles,  I  glanced  behind  at  the  silent  deserted  in 
terior  of  the  Vatican,  and  descended  the  dark  stairway. 

Now  appeared  a  vault  approximately  twenty-five  feet 
square,  the  floor  of  which  was  ten  feet  below  the  floor 
of  the  Vatican.  In  the  intense  silence,  I  imagined  from 
time  to  time,  the  sound  of  running  water.  Before  per 
mitting  the  panel  to  swing  back  (even  though  the  docu 
ment  assured  me  of  the  ease  of  opening  it  from  the 
inside)  I  carefully  examined  the  locking  mechanism,  and 
found  that  the  way  out  was  simple  as  turning  a  door 
knob.  In  this  vault,  I  was  told  to  store  the  daily  yield 
of  gold  from  the  Calderon;  here  Romany  had  kept  the 
fortune  which  the  fifty  took  away. 

The  other  door,  the  inner  mountain  entrance,  I  was 
advised  not  to  notice,  until  such  time  as  necessary.  I 
thought  there  was  a  bit  of  humor  in  the  part  of  the 
document  having  to  do  with  this  passage.  The  locking 
arrangement  of  the  low  stone  door  was  apparent  in  the 


264  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

candle-light.  I  tried  it  sufficiently  to  find  that  the  door 
would  open;  and  pictured  Romany  laughing  at  my 
temptation,  thoroughly  enjoying  this  Blue-beard  legacy. 
He  refrained  from  commanding  me  not  to  explore  the 
mountain,  but  intimated  that  it  would  be  wisdom  to 
forego  this,  except  in  a  case  of  extremity — such  as  his 
failure  to  return,  or  Orion  taking  the  Pass  from  Huntoon 
and  driving  the  men  of  Tropicania  into  the  Vatican. 

I  had  a  greater  fear  of  trouble  from  my  own  men, 
than  from  Huntoon's  inability  to  hold  the  outer 
position. 

In  the  fortnight  following  the  departure  of  the  Chief, 
there  came  no  letters  from  Mary  Romany,  although  mail 
had  reached  us  from  the  States.  I  remember  taking  the 
gold  into  the  Vatican  at  the  close  of  a  miserable  day,  in 
which  I  had  felt  the  temper  of  the  men  on  the  river, 
as  well  as  the  loneliness  of  a  letter-less  man.  ...  It  had 
been  growing  upon  me  from  the  first,  that  Romany  had 
made  an  imprudent  choice;  that  I  didn't  belong  to  this 
post ;  that  to  rule  well  in  such  a  capacity,  I  needed  the 
years  and  reputation  of  the  old  Master  of  promoters; 
or,  without  these,  required  more  of  the  very  hardness 
which  Mary  Romany  had  wished  the  Year  to  eliminate. 

There  had  been  little  time  for  extended  walks  to  the 
blocked  gorge;  and  so  I  had  taken  the  evening  calls  to 
the  Vatican  to  concentrate  upon  the  sweet  realities,  com 
pared  to  which  this  existence  in  the  midst  of  suspicion 
and  gold-tension,  was  a  sort  of  nether-world  galvanized 
by  under-men,  creatures  condemned  to  certain  endless 
material  ordeals.  .  .  .  And  this  night,  the  day's  gold 
safely  cached,  I  sat  thinking  long  in  the  unbroken  black, 
by  the  curbing  of  the  cistern,  until  the  stress  of  the  work 


Lost  Valley  265 

to  do  at  Headquarters  drew  me  back.  An  hour  had 
passed.  Supper  had  been  utterly  forgotten,  and  more 
important  matters.  Hastily  letting  myself  out  of  the 
great  iron  door,  and  clanking  it  closed,  I  discovered 
the  full  night,  and  the  row  of  lights  by  the  river,  with 
Dole's  bar  a  garnet  stud  in  the  centre.  A  figure  lifted 
from  the  shadow  down  by  the  picket-line,  and  lightly 
over  the  evening  air  with  the  scent  of  forage  and  trampled 
turf,  came  a  voice  I  loved  among  men : 
"  Hai — Rivers  of  Babylon " 

15 

HUNTOON  at  the  Pass — had  made  possible  this  utter 
surprise  for  me.  Yuan  had  hoped  to  come  this  way. 
.  .  .  He  had  parted  from  Jane  Forbes  at  Shanghai,  about 
the  same  time  I  reached  Tropicania — slightly  less  than  a 
month  after  I  had  left  the  pair  on  the  deck  of  the  Doric 
in  San  Francisco  harbor,  eight  months  ago.  The  woman 
had  gone  up  the  Yellow  River  to  establish  her  mission 
for  little  Chinese  girls.  Yuan  had  seen  her  once  since — 
ten  weeks  ago — for  a  day  and  evening.  .  .  .  The  Mission 
was  prospering. 

Listening,  I  served  him  with  my  own  hands.  I  had 
forgotten  the  valley.  We  had  walked  from  the  picket- 
line  arm  in  arm — his  two  servants  behind  us.  I  had 
broken  the  leads  from  a  packet  of  choice  tea  he  had 
given  me  in  China,  and  heated  the  kettle  and  the  pot, 
brought  the  cups  and  spoons ;  fresh  fruits  from  Libertad ; 
olives  and  butter  and  bacon  from  the  glass ;  bread  fresh 
from  the  valley  ovens.  Romany  had  never  been  without 
a  bit  of  real  wine.  .  .  . 

I  have  forgotten  remotely  what  Maconachie  came  in 
for.  There  were  two  or  three  other  calls  at  Head- 


266  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

quarters  that  night — I  hardly  remembered  until  after 
ward.  Huntoon  said  he  would  join  us  in  the  morning. 
So  I  waited  upon  Yuan  Kang  Su,  deeply  absorbed  and 
delighted.  Everything  was  ready  before  I  remembered 
that  I  had  not  supped;  this  made  it  all  the  happier. 
Dan-with-the-gout,  an  old  serving-man  of  Romany's, 
who  had  taken  care  of  my  solitary  table  since  the  Chief's 
departure,  glared  with  astonishment. 

"  Come,"  said  I  at  last,  "  we'll  walk  out  together 
down  by  the  river.  Everything  is  here  for  your  boys. 
Dan  will  take  care  of  them." 

"  Would  you  mind,"  Yuan  suggested,  "  if  we  sat 
by,  until  they  had  their  supper?" 

I  minded  nothing,  but  I  noted  that  they  regarded 
the  nobleman  gratefully,  as  we  made  ourselves  com 
fortable  in  the  doorway  of  Headquarters.  And  so  his 
story  went  on.  It  is  the  Oriental  way  between  friends, 
to  provide  each  other,  after  extended  absence,  with  a 
more  or  less  coherent  and  chronological  account  of  the 
interval.  I  had  begged  him  to  speak  first.  .  .  . 

They  had  not  called  him  to  trial  at  once  upon  his 
reaching  Peking.  He  was  sent  to  Ostraso,  a  valuable 
tea  island,  to  head  off  the  encroachments  of  the 
foreigners,  and  remained  four  months.  With  a  de 
preciatory  smile,  he  told  me  that  his  work  there  had 
been  called  brilliant,  and  that  within  a  fortnight  after 
his  return  to  Peking,  he  had  received  a  decoration.  Shan 
Wo  Kai  was  present  at  the  Capital. 

"  I  found  it  was  to  fight  for  me  that  he  had  come," 
Yuan  said.  "  Those  close  to  the  Throne  in  China  make 
it  a  point  never  to  forget.  Thomas " 

I  laughed  at  the  same  queer  expression  on  his  lips, 
as  he  uttered  the  name. 


Lost  Valley  267 

"  Thomas,  you  must  take  these  things  that  I  have  to 
say,  with  the  cool  understanding  of  a  friend — not  with 
the  heated  inspiration  of  the  apostle  of  romance,  I  know 
so  well.  What  is  done  is  done.  I  have  come  to  you — 
a  long,  long  way — to  be  with  you  this  night,  because 
you  are  my  friend.  A  man's  real  friend  makes  the 
thought  of  growing  old  a  pleasure.  ...  I  ask  you  not  to 
try  to  change  anything  that  has  been  done.  Of  course 
that  is  impossible,  but  it  would  pain  me  for  you  to  try. 
A  bird  beating  and  maiming  itself  in  a  cage  would 
be  the  same " 

I  felt  again,  as  on  that  day  we  had  walked  together 
in  Washington — that  his  life  was  over,  that  the  rest 
was  not  work,  nor  love,  but  empty  waiting. 

"Tell  me.  Yuan." 

"  In  coming,  I  had  to  make  myself  believe  you  would 
accept  the  inevitable,  as  I  do.  This  hour  has  been  worth 
the  coming,  and  we  shall  have  our  talk  of  two  friends. 
I  shall  be  very  happy — if  you  grant  me  this  thing " 

"What  is  this  thing?" 

"  That  you  shall  not  fall  into  rage  nor  misery  at 
what  you  hear ;  that  you  seek  not  to  mend  nor  rend.  .  .  . 
Do  this  for  me,  Thomas " 

"  I  will  do  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  Glancing  at  the  table,  he  saw 
that  his  companions  had  finished  supper,  and  added: 
"  Now  we  shall  walk  together." 

The  two  Chinese  followed  us  out,  walking  behind 
at  a  discreet  distance.  Their  presence  was  a  restless 
and  altogether  peculiar  irritation  for  me.  I  avoided 
the  settlement,  and  we  reached  the  river  path  at  a  point 
beyond  the  last  of  the  shacks. 

"  Shan  Wo  Kai  did  not  tell  me  that  he  was  fighting 


268  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

my  battle,"  Yuan  was  saying.  "  Back  in  the  Forbidden 
City  after  Ostraso,  they  made  me  believe  that  I  was  a 
Daniel  in  the  Imperial  Court.  Our  friend  the  Ambas 
sador,  in  speaking  of  my  work  on  the  tea  island,  said 
that  I  had  imbibed  American  and  European  precepts  and 
practices,  and  without  calling  them  good  or  evil,  declared 
that  since  China  was  sorely  menaced  by  the  younger 
Powers,  young  men  of  my  knowledge  were  necessary 
to  show  China  the  way  to  compete  and  combat.  He 
foresaw  and  depicted  the  dismemberment  of  the  old 
meditative  Mother-land,  if  she  did  not  arise  and  deal 
with  the  quicker-witted  and  quicker-handed  peoples 
according  to  the  latter's  methods. 

"  I  wish  you  had  been  there,"  Yuan  said  reflectively. 
"  I  think  our  friend  would  have  been  glad  to  have  you 
there.  He  was  at  his  best,  and  a  very  strong  man.  The 
Empire's  old  men  were  present — those  close  to  the 
Throne — many  statesmen  the  world  has  never  heard  of. 
Shan  Wo  Kai  deplored  the  necessity  of  naval  and 
military  evolution,  but  pointed  below  to  India,  drained — 
and  above  to  Japan,  keyed  with  modern  national  spirit 
and  eager  for  a  trial  of  war.  Between  these  China  must 
choose  her  future. 

"  You  will  wonder  what  these  things,  so  obvious  to 
you,  have  to  do  with  me.  In  pointing  the  way  China 
must  go  in  this  '  youngest  born  of  Eternity,'  my  friend 
declared  he  was  painting  the  dreams  of  service  of  Yuan 
Kang  Su.  I  saw  that  his  influence  was,  intense,  and  that 
he  was  exciting  the  conservatives,  who  would  shortly 
rise  against  him  like  a  plague  of  hornets.  Moreover,  I 
knew  that  the  old  Throne-Mother  was  relentlessly  against 
the  New ;  that  the  doctrines  of  the  younger  men  bristled 
with  menaces  for  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Then  I  was  asked  to 


Lost  Valley  269 

speak,  and  you  will  smile  at  me,  Thomas,  for  I  told 
them  that  China  needed  men;  that  China  must  liberate 
her  women  to  raise  men " 

He  laughed  softly. 

"  Then  I  went  out  of  the  assembly.  From  a  distance 
I  saw  at  last  our  friend  Shan  Wo  Kai  rushing  forth — 
his  hands  to  his  ears.  The  hornets  had  come,  Thomas. 
.  -.  .  And  that  night  they  brought  me  a  little  box  contain 
ing  my  decoration.  I  opened  it  and  thrust  it  into  my 
breast.  There  was  a  fountain  near,  and  I  drank  a  cup 

of  cold  water.  Looking  up,  I  saw  these  two "  He 

turned  to  the  shadowy  figures  behind.  "  They  have 
been  with  me  since  that  day." 

My  brain  did  not  exactly  fathom  the  truth.  I  asked 
questions,  but  Yuan's  fingers  for  a  second  closed  upon  my 
wrist.  He  wanted  to  tell  the  story  in  his  own  fashion. 

"  I  was  ordered  away  on  a  long  journey,"  he  re 
sumed,  "  but  my  country  gave  me  three  months  in  which 
to  prepare ;  and  first,  I  went  up  the  River  to  say  good- 
by  to  those  dearest  of  hands  under  the  bright  sun " 

Even  in  the  stress  I  recognized  the  last  phrase.  It 
was  a  nursery  idiom  of  the  Chinese  which  he  "had  trans 
lated  literally.  .  .  . 

"  We  walked  the  roads  you  know,  Thomas, — and 
across  the  river  among  the  gardens.  That  is  where  the 
real  Mission  is  to  be  and  my  father's  house  shall  be 
her  house;  her  children,  even  the  little  Ellen,  shall  have 
the  rose  gardens  and  the  old  house-servants.  For  I  have 
no  brothers,  and  my  father  is  very  old.  I  think  the 
queer  little  mother  will  like  that  very  well.  It  will  be 
hard  for  China  to  understand.  China  will  ask  for  years 
to  come — '  Where  is  the  race  of  Kang  Su  that  used  to 
be  on  the  Bluffs  across  the  river  from  Liu  chuan  ? ' 


270  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

And  the  strangers  shall  see  little  girls  running  to  and 
fro  with  unbroken  feet,  among  the  rose  gardens  and  a 
woman  of  your  country  in  the  doorway  of  the  ancestral 
house.  If  they  ask  her,  she  will  answer,  '  This  is  his 
house,  but  Yuan  Kang  Su  went  away  upon  a  long 
journey.  He  wanted  to  change  his  country  in  the  swift 
and  furious  way  that  the  Occident  changes,  so  they  sent 
him  away.' ': 

Had  Yuan  spoken  these  words  in  his  own  tongue, 
there  would  have  been  a  stately  rhythm  to  the  telling 
which  I  cannot  give.  .  .  .  There  was  no  moon.  We 
heard  the  booming  of  the  impassable  gorge  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  the  lights  were  farther  behind,  but  the  two 
companions  did  not  change  their  distance. 

".  .  .  Sometimes  she  walked  beside  me  with  her  eyes 
upon  the  ground.  The  rocks  were  filled  with  heat, 
Thomas;  the  hills  held  fast  to  the  heat  that  day.  Once 
a  child  called;  her  pale  face  lifted  and  she  hastened 
toward  the  voice — running,  in  her  thin  gray  dress.  I 
can  see  her  now  in  this  darkness,  and  the  sound  of  the 
water  here  is  like  the  sound  of  the  water  there.  .  .  . 
All  that  day  her  face  grew  whiter  and  whiter.  She 
did  not  inquire  about  the  long  journey  I  was  to  take  for 
my  country — until  the  night.  But  once  she  turned  and 
saw  my  two  friends,  and  asked  why  they  had  followed 
us  all  day.  I  told  her  that  when  China  wishes  to  use  a 
man,  she  provides  against  his  encountering  accidents. 

"  And  then,  as  the  night  drew  on,  I  saw  she  was 
beginning  to  understand, — that  her  soul  was  thinking  the 
truth  and  that  it  was  weird  and  terrible.  She  said  that 
she  was  not  lonely  nor  miserable  when  she  knew  I  was 
at  work;  when  she  could  follow  my  journeys  and  know 
that  I  was  doing  my  best,  and  thinking  about  our  lives 


Lost  Valley  271 

together.  .  .  .  Her  face  was  lined  and  haggard  with  her 
soul's  tumult — that  face  with  the  child's  purity  upon 
the  brow  and  the  woman's  power  of  the  eyes  and  lips. 
It  made  me  suddenly  impotent.  A  wild  dream  came  to 
me — not  to  take  the  long  journey — to  take  her  away 
instead;  but  when  she  saw  how  I  was  breaking,  her 
strength  came  back.  She  is  the  God-touched  woman. 

"  So  we  had  tea  together,  and  I  started  down  the 
river.  And  the  woman  said,  '  You  do  not  mean  to  come 
back.  You  do  not  mean  to  come  back^  but  it  will  all  be 
well  with  us.'  ...  I  answered :  '  It  will  all  be  well/ 
and  my  boat  and  my  friends  were  waiting.  You  see,  I 
had  to  hurry,  or  I  could  not  have  gone,  for  she  was 
dearer  to  me  than  China." 

"  So  I  went  first  to  my  father ;  and  then  to  the  woman 
who  was  waiting,  and  now  I  have  come  to  my  friend. 
It  has  taken  ten  weeks  from  Liu  chuan,  for  I  had  to  wait 
for  steamers  everywhere.  And  this  is  the  night  of  the 
eighty-ninth  day,  since  I  drank  the  cup  of  cold  water  at 
the  fountain " 

"  And  you  begin  the  longer  journey  to-morrow  ?  "  I 
asked,  remembering  the  promise. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  these  two  friends  will  not  go  with  you  ?  " 

"  No.    They  turn  back  to  Peking." 

"  And  so  they  gave  you  the  silver  cord,*  Yuan — that 
was  your  decoration?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  that  is  the  answer  of  the  China  you  served  and 
loved,  with  the  best  of  your  brain  and  heart?" 

"  You  see,  I  was  not  exactly  true." 

*The  silver  cord  is  tendered  only  to  nobility.  The  honored 
recipient  must  slay  himself  within  three  months,  or  be  assassinated, 
a  necessity  for  the  latter  course  being  considered  dishonorable. 


272  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  No,  you  saved  a  few  friends  from  being  murdered, 
and  you  came  to  love  a  woman.  ...  I  spoke  of  China 
more  wisely  than  I  knew  that  night  in  Washington " 

"  China  will  be  born  again." 

".  .  .  And  so  this  is  the  answer  of  China — the  answer 
Shan  Wo  Kai  did  not  give  me  that  night  ?  " 

"  Shan  Wo  Kai  fought  for  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  He  is  a  good  man  with  a  vile 
mistress.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  this  once,  for  I  do  not  speak 
in  haste,  Yuan.  She  whom  you  call  Throne-Mother,  and 
those  whom  you  call  Conservatives — are  a  sick  and  nasty 
stench  upon  the  modern  world " 

"  But  they  are  dying." 

"  They  have  taken  my  friend." 

...  A  third  time  Yuan  asked  me  to  go  back  to  the 
placer.  The  day  was  rising.  I  had  never  seen  such  a 
day's  beginning.  An  ethereal  mist  was  in  the  air.  The 
valley-bed  was  like  the  bottom  of  a  sea  of  heavenly 
vapors.  A  transparent  electric  blue  had  flooded  in  be 
tween  the  ranges.  Over  the  eastern  heights  the  sun 
appeared  like  the  tip  of  a  flamingo  plume. 

I  told  him  again  I  knew  a  door  that  would  shut  him 
from  China  forever.  I  would  have  carried  him  to  the 
Vatican  and  laughed  at  the  two  as  the  panel  shut 
between.  .  .  . 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  "  They  are  my 
friends.  They  would  die  for  me.  I  could  have  murdered 
them  a  score  of  times  as  they  slept  beside  me.  They 
know  Yuan  Kang  Su.  .  .  .  What  care  we  for  China,  you 
and  I?  The  young  men  will  know  of  this.  It  will  gird 
their  loins.  You  will  go  back  to  the  Mission  with  your 
Lady  and  carry  my  love  to  the  woman  there.  Why, 


Lost  Valley 


273 


'ihomas,  we  are  friends,  and  what  have  we  to  do  with 
China,  who  know  such  women  ?  .  .  .  Now  go,  for  the  day 
is  rising — and  it  does  not  belong  to  me.  I  do  not  want 
it.  I  am  finished.  .  .  .  You  would  not  stay " 

I  was  tiring  him,  and  he  had  been  so  calm  and  for 
bearing. 

I  saw  his  face  now  in  the  sky-blue  air.  It  did  not 
seem  that  he  had  met  suffering.  The  boy  was  still  upon 
his  brow.  I  felt  old  China  about  me — garroting  me. 
I  had  wrestled  for  hours.  I  was  making  him  suffer.  I 
took  his  hand.  I  saw  that  he  had  swallowed  something. 
One  of  the  Chinese  brought  him  water,  making  a  cup  of 
his  two  hands. 

"  It  will  be  fairer  to  me  and  to  you — if  you  go  now 
quickly,  and  turn  not  back,"  he  said,  holding  to  my 
shoulder.  "  We  have  met  and  lived,  my  friend.  We 
shall  meet  and  live  again." 

And  I  did  not  turn  back. 

I  have  told  it  very  ill,  but  I  could  not  repeat  my 
words  that  would  show  how  I  fought  for  his  life  against 
the  promise — knowing  how  vain  those  words  were. 
Moreover,  it  was  like  a  fever  that  came  to  me,  at  the  end 
of  that  night  begun  so  joyously;  and  the  wrestlings  of 
fever  are  mercifully  shadowed  by  memory.  ...  I  was 
sitting  in  the  doorway  of  Headquarters  when  the  Two 
returned  and  greeted  me.  They  would  have  gone  with 
out  breaking  their  fast,  had  I  suffered  them.  They  had 
loved  him.  ...  I  sent  an  escort  with  them  to  the  Pass. 
...  At  the  end  of  the  day  I  was  at  the  place  where  we 
sat  through  the  night,  and  where  I  had  left  him.  There 
was  no  sign,  except  that  the  great  condor  sailed  across 
and  across — nearer  the  valley-earth  than  ever  before. 
18 


274  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

16 

FOR  a  week  thereafter  I  was  in  a  daze.  Letters  from 
Mary  Romany  roused  me  to  the  world.  They  were 
badly  postmarked  again,  but  I  discerned  "  Guayaquil  " 
on  the  envelope.  The  rest  was  lost  in  the  Libertad 
smudge,  but  the  contents  took  up  our  old  story  without 
a  break.  There  was  a  poise  and  a  sweetness  about  these 
letters,  which,  after  the  extra  interval,  made  me  over 
anew ;  and  I  was  in  need  of  restoration  after  the  tragedy. 
A  strong  hand  was  now  needed  in  the  valley. 

It  was  Huntoon  who  made  me  see  the  fresh  develop 
ment.  Three  Chinese  had  come.  Two  had  gone.  Where 
was  the  third?  This  was  what  his  men  were  asking, 
and  his  men  said  little  else  was  talked  about  at  the 
placer.  ...  I  had  not  spoken  of  the  death  of  Yuan  Kang 
Su — even  to  Maconachie.  I  now  told  Huntoon  that  the 
men  must  talk  it  out,  if  that  was  their  inclination;  that 
it  was  purely  a  matter  which  belonged  to  us. 

"  That's  just  the  point,  it  doesn't,"  said  Huntoon. 
"At  least,  the  men  don't  take  it  so.  When  I  let  our 
Chinese  friend  across  the  Pass,  it  was  so  he  could  work 
the  surprise  that  he  was  set  upon.  If  he'd  gone  out  with 
the  others — nobody  would  have  thought  about  it.  But 
now  they  say,  you've  let  the  Chino  out  through  the  secret 
passage.  The  whole  valley  is  a-tremble  anyway. 
They're  more  than  ever  afraid  that  Orion  will  learn  the 
way  in." 

"  This  ought  to  give  me  back  my  head,"  I  said.  "  I've 
been  incredibly  stupid  not  to  think  of  it." 

Still  I  had  no  intention  of  discussing  Yuan  Kang  Su 
and  the  story  of  the  silver  cord  with  the  men.  Huntoon 
believed  order  would  last  throughout  the  eight  weeks, 


Lost  Valley  275 

and  that  all  would  be  well  if  Romany  returned  within 
this  calculated  time.  If  not — here  Huntoon  intimated 
that  he  was  ready,  if  the  river  crowd  undertook  to  start 
anything.  Thus  we  let  the  affair  stand. 

Seven  of  the  eight  weeks  which  the  old  Master  had 
stipulated,  elapsed  before  I  gave  way  to  an  inclination 
growing  for  days — to  explore  beyond  the  inner,  or 
mountain-door,  of  the  vault  behind  the  Vatican.  Affairs 
were  in  such  a  delicate  condition  at  the  placer,  that  it 
seemed  best  to  know  my  resources  in  full.  On  this 
particular  morning,  I  had  made  a  tour  of  the  valley 
and  ridden  to  the  Pass  for  a  conference  with  Huntoon. 
Dinner  was  brought  to  Headquarters  shortly  after  mid 
day.  Dan-with-the-gout  was  a  thunder-cloud.  For  a 
while  afterward,  I  smoked  moodily.  A  current  seemed 
to  come  to  me  from  every  man  on  the  river ;  his  condition 
of  mind  registering  itself  in  mine.  In  this  sensitive 
state,  the  misery  of  the  whole  force  over-ran  my  volition. 
I  had  never  before  felt  so  inadequate.  It  was  a  dark 
crippling  thrall — this,  besetting  me,  as  I  let  myself  into 
the  Vatican  to  learn  the  conclusion  of  the  secret.  I 
wondered  if  Romany  hadn't  expected  me  to  do  this 
before  the  fiftieth  day. 

Within  ten  minutes,  I  was  inside  the  vault  with  the 
seven  weeks'  garnering  of  Tropicania — and  the  revolving 
panel  to  the  Vatican  shut.  The  door  to  the  mountain 
passage  opened  easily.  The  breeze  that  came  forth 
caused  me  to  exchange  the  candle  for  a  lantern,  though 
I  pocketed  the  former  and  plenty  of  matches. 

The  air  was  deliciously  cool  and  fresh,  and  the  sound 
of  running  water  that  I  had  seemed  to  hear  so  faintly, 
proved  no  vagary.  The  archless  tunnel  was  shaped  like 
the  outer  door  of  the  Vatican — straight  across,  narrow 


276  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

at  the  top,  ceiled  with  slabs  of  stone  and  broad  at  the 
bottom,  a  matter  of  ten  feet  at  least.  The  walking  ledge 
was  several  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  stream.  Two 
could  move  comfortably  abreast,  but  light  was  needed  to 
avoid  stepping  off  into  unknown  depths. 

The  sense  of  modernness  and  actuality  left  me  en 
tirely.  This  ancient  and  incrusted  passage  was  clean 
and  ventilated.  The  fact  that  this  was  running  water 
was  a  consuming  mystery.  Could  there  be  a  subterranean 
stream  beneath  the  Vatican  to  the  Calderon?  Here  I 
thought  of  Maconachie,  and  the  mystery  that  had  so 
long  consumed  his  hard-working  faculties — the  Deep 
Hole  of  the  Calderon.  .  .  .  With  each  step  forward  I 
was  more  largely  conscious  of  the  distance  and  darkness 
behind,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  my  mind  held  fast  to 
the  facts :  that  the  passage,  in  no  sense  a  labyrinth,  had 
endured  for  centuries ;  that  I  had  candles  and  matches 
in  the  event  of  the  lantern  blowing  out;  that  a  touch  of 
the  hand  would  open  the  door  to  the  vault,  and  another 
would  swing  the  panel  opening  into  the  Vatican,  from 
which  Tropicania  was  barred.  .  .  .  With  thoughts  like 
this  my  nerves  were  cooled,  though  the  fascination  of 
the  adventure  increased  rather  than  diminished. 

The  water  smelled  sweet  enough  to  drink.  In  ten 
minutes  I  had  covered  perhaps  two  hundred  yards,  con 
stantly  amazed  by  the  miracle  of  this  manhandling  of 
great  mountains,  abased  before  the  toil  of  these  ancient 
men  and  their  passion  for  Herculean  labor.  Now  there 
was  a  gradual  turn  to  the  tunnel,  and  presently  light 
from  ahead. 

Swinging  the  lantern  above  to  make  certain  there 
was  no  parting  of  the  ways  to  confuse  the  return,  I 
hastened  forward.  Less  than  a  half-hour  had  passed 


Lost  Valley  277 

since  I  left  the  brilliant  valley  sun,  yet  I  almost  ran  as 
one  thralled  in  the  lure  of  a  great  light.  It  was  the 
fervor  of  a  boy  in  a  perfect  fairy  tale. 

I  smelled  the  land,  as  one  long  at  sea.  It  was  the 
same  fragrance  which  came  to  me  the  first  evening  on 
the  down-slope  to  Tropicania.  Blackness  cleared  from 
the  water  as  it  passed  below,  running  back  toward  the 
Vatican ;  and  I  heard  it  splashing  upon  the  stones  ahead. 
The  narrow  archless  ceiling  of  the  passage  ended  in  an 
abrupt  skyward  sweep,  and  the  foot-path  of  the  tunnel 
changed  to  an  ascending  ledge  on  the  wall  of  a  canyon, 
narrower  and  not  so  lofty  as  the  walls  of  the  Calderon 
gorge.  The  sun  was  still  high,  so  that  the  light  was 
vivid  in  the  ravine. 

For  the  first  time  I  grasped  the  conception  of  the 
early  builders.  Tropicania  was  not  originally  a  Cul-de- 
sac.  There  had  been  another  way  to  the  sea,  besides 
the  Calderon  gorge-trail.  A  second  canyon  had  opened 
into  the  valley  here,  its  stream  flowing  into  the  Calderon. 
The  ancient  mountain-masters  had  sealed  this  second 
gorge  on  the  valley-front,  and  preserved  the  secret 
through  the  temple  we  called  the  Vatican.  They  had 
roofed  its  bed  on  the  slope  to  the  gold  river,  blocked 
the  rift  facing  Tropicania  with  the  temple  at  the  base, 
upon  which  they  had  avalanched  rock  and  soil  from 
either  side;  the  seasons  and  the  ages  had  covered  the 
secret. 

So  there  was  a  trail  to  the  sea,  in  the  country  called 
"  Unknown,"  south  of  the  Calderon  and  between  the 
coast  and  Tropicania.  The  ancient  Quichuans  had 
known  it,  and  Nicholas  Romany  and  his  fifty  had  fol 
lowed  it;  my  feet  were  upon  it. 

I  ascended  the  sharp  curve  which  the  shelving  trail 


278  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

now  assumed  upon  the  wall  of  the  ravine,  and  halted  at 
the  top  at  last  to  rest — to  think  out  this  amazing  business 
and  my  relation  to  it.  The  silence  and  the  heat  op 
pressed  me,  and  added  to  the  pervading  unreality  of  the 
whole  experience. 

Over  the  rim  of  rock  I  discerned  another  valley, 
broader  and  more  sumptuous  than  Tropicania,  and  never 
in  my  mind  was  it  apart  from  the  mystery  of  being  lost 
to  the  world.  The  little  river  broke  out  of  its  rocky 
gorge  and  ran  like  a  demolished  silver  spring,  eccen 
trically  coiled  at  the  base  of  unconquerable  mountains — 
glacial  altitudes  and  massive  slopes  which  faced  the 
afternoon  in  green  and  gold.  There  was  a  wonderful 
olive  glow  in  the  distance.  .  .  .  Again  it  came  to  me  that 
all  this  had  been  lost  to  the  world,  and  that  Romany 
and  the  fifty  had  broken  the  spell  of  centuries.  Perhaps 
the  Quichuans  had  been  hard-pressed  in  Tropicania  and 
had  fled  through  their  temple — vanished  from  the  face 
of  the  earth,  in  so  far  as  their  pursuers  were  concerned. 
Hundreds  of  years  afterward  an  American  gold-hunter 
was  using  the  fruits  of  their  work  to  outwit  the  effete 
race  which  followed  those  terrible  builders. 

Unlike  Tropicania,  this  new  valley  abounded  in 
vegetation.  Here  was  rubber  that  modern  prospectors 
had  missed  in  an  age  of  rubber;  here  the  gigantic  cactus 
and  the  essential  cinchona;  but  greater  than  all  to  me, 
the  nearer  slopes  were  a  prevalent  yellow  from  mar 
guerites.  This  was  the  fairy  quality  again — this  the 
clue  to  the  strange  olive  glow  of  the  distances.  Such 
was  this  Andean  festival — the  golden  silence  of  the 
ages  broken  into  a  million  marguerites.  ...  I  must  have 
fallen  into  a  queer  depth  of  thinking — when  the  light 


Lost  Valley  279 

was  struck  from  my  eyes,  and  for  a  moment,  all  motor 

control  taken  from  me : 

"  The  crows  have  plucked  all  our  flower-seeds." 

.  .  .  Rigidly  I  arose  at  last  and  stared  over  the  rim 

of  rock  to  the  source  of  that  voice. 

Disorder  or  reality,  flesh  or  spirit, — she  was  there — 

Mary  Romany — standing  in  a  little  terraced  garden  and 

looking  back  toward  some  one,  as  yet  invisible. 

17 

I  DID  not  call  to  her.  If  this  were  madness — I  gloried 
in  it.  All  the  evil  and  complication  of  Tropicania  swept 
from  my  mind  like  a  foul  dust-storm.  I  could  face  the 
men  now ;  I  could  fill  Huntoon  with  new  zest,  could  hold 
the  steam  in  the  dredge  and  ardor  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
She  had  come  to  this  world  of  her  father's — not  to 
shorten  the  Year,  but  to  be  near  us.  ...  Her  fingers 
had  indeed  touched  my  face  in  that  starry  night  at 
Libertad.  To  the  far  borderlands  of  consciousness  where 
the  accident  on  the  picket-line  had  cast  me,  Mary 
Romany's  ministrations  followed;  and  had  been  with 
drawn  only  when  she  was  certain  I  was  not  at  the  end 
of  vitality.  .  .  .  There  she  stood  now  for  my  uncertain 
eyes,  a  vision  among  the  marguerites. 

Long  since  would  she  have  made  her  presence  known 
to  me,  had  she  wished  me  to  know.  I  understood  the 
indefinite  post-marks  now,  the  Libertad  smudges,  and  the 
recent  "  Guayaquil "  stamp.  Romany  had  managed  to 
get  mail  ashore  on  the  voyage  north  to  California.  His 
grim  humor  about  my  exploring  beyond  the  vault  was 
now  clear.  I  loved  her  integrity  and  the  deeper  mean 
ing  of  our  separation — that  sterling  character  which 


280  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

meant  a  year  when  she  said  it ;  meant  a  work  thoroughly 
done  when  she  set  a  task.  In  my  great  need  alone 
would  she  come.  I  must  do  my  work  and  fashion  my 
mind  for  intimate  revelations. 

Into  the  passage  I  retreated,  limbs  springing  with 
life.  The  darkness  was  alive  with  strange  virtues, 
penetrable  to  this  restored  singing  consciousness.  Pale, 
lustrous,  she  had  stood  on  the  little  terrace  among  the 
mountain  marguerites. 

Out  through  the  vault  and  the  Vatican — to  the  gold- 
ridden  valley,  sinister  now  to  my  eyes  in  the  golden 
light  of  afternoon — with  power  in  my  brain,  a  fixture 
of  beauty  and  a  new  concentration  for  living  in  my 
mind.  .  .  . 

The  eight  weeks  passed  and  Romany  did  not  return. 
I  watched  Tropicania  for  the  development  of  the  leader, 
inevitable  in  the  now  imminent  break.  The  growing 
disaffection  had  only  murmured,  up  to  the  night  the 
eight  weeks  ended,  and  on  this  morning  in  which  opened 
the  new  period,  I  was  pleased  to  see  the  work  resumed 
as  usual. 

At  noon,  however,  Maconachie  appeared  at  Head 
quarters  and  sat  down. 

The  crux  had  developed  Maconachie.  I  had  known 
Mac  quite  as  well  eight  months  ago,  after  the  first  ten 
minutes  of  meeting,  as  at  this  moment.  He  had  colleged 
extensively  and  was  slow  to  forget  it.  There  was  a 
character  about  him — a  bit  of  Scotch,  perhaps — that  made 
him  a  factor  to  deal  with.  I  doubt  if  the  placer-crew 
could  have  chosen  a  better  agent.  He  was  more  than 
unyielding  by  nature;  he  had  the  capacity  to  wait  until 
the  elements  settled,  adjusting  to  his  ways.  Mentally 


Lost  Valley  281 

Maconachie  was  a  sort  of  abutment;  physically  it  was 
impossible  to  hold  any  such  notion.  He  seemed  a  brittle 
elongated  wooden  toy.  He  had  come  to  Romany  needing 
out-door  work,  and  had  proved  so  valuable  that  the  old 
Master  declared  he  could  build  a  railroad  from  a  pocket- 
atlas. 

"  Hello,  Mac,"  I  said,  eyeing  him  as  he  stretched 
out  his  long  flabby  legs. 

"  Hello,  Ryerson." 

In  his  own  mind  he  did  not  acknowledge  my  leader 
ship.  An  older  man  would  have  appeared  to.  Tropi- 
cania,  I  discerned,  had  become  a  republic. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  asked. 

"  The  Old  Man  has  over-stayed  his  leave." 

"  I  appreciate  your  dropping  everything  to  tell  me. 
And  then  what  ?  " 

"  The  men  don't  like  it." 

"  Neither  do  I.    And  Romany  likes  it  least  of  all." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  He  set  out  to  return  by  last  night.  When  he  fails 
— something  has  given  away  somewhere.  He  doesn't 
bend  easily  to  conditions.  I  should  think  you  would 
have  seen  that." 

"  The  men  expected  him  back  within  the  eight 
weeks " 

"  As  I  understand  it — you  are  the  men " 

"  Exactly." 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  you  know  what  it  says  on  the  back 
of  transportation  contracts — fire,  earthquake,  storm  and 
in  general  the  reversals  of  God's  providence " 

"  Yes " 

"  You  are  officially  informed  that  something  of  the 
sort  has  happened." 


The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  Thanks." 

Maconachie  did  not  go,  however. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  what's  to  prevent  you  and  another 
small  party  of  your  own  choosing,  going  out  the  same 
way  Romany  did  and  leaving  us  here  like  a  lot  of  brood- 
biddies  on  Eastern-morn?" 

"  Nothing  but  the  infallible  integrity  of  the  Tropicania 
proposition." 

"  Then  this  Huntoon  might  fall  asleep  and  let 
Orion " 

"  Overflow  his  banks,  as  it  were.  .  .  .  True  for  you, 
Mac." 

"  The  men  don't  like  it,"  he  repeated. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  Take  over  the  last  two  months'  gold." 

I  smiled.  "  We — that  is,  you  and  I  and  the  rest — 
are  contracted  to  lose  all  in  the  event  of  mutiny " 

"  Still,  in  the  event  of  losing  what  is  already  gone 
through  fire,  storm  or  the  turning  away  of  God's  pro 
vidence — it  behooves  us  to  save  what  we  can." 

"  I  did  not  say  '  lost,'  Mac, — but  delayed.  Romany 
had  a  big  journey.  The  gold  here  in  my  hands  is, 
roughly,  only  one-fifth  as  much  as  the  old  Master  took 
away.  It  all  belongs  to  us — to  Tropicania.  The  year's 
work  wouldn't  stack  up  very  high  if  we  threw  away  our 
chance  on  the  big  bulk  of  the  fortune " 

"  The  men  think — if  Romany  is  honest,  he  couldn't 
greatly  object  to  finding  a  change  of  leadership  when 
he  comes  back,  inasmuch  as  he  has  been  detained.  I 
mean,  they  think  their  chances  on  the  main  divvy  would 
not  be  spoiled." 

"  You  would  leave  it  entirely  to  Romany's 
generosity  ?  " 


Lost  Valley  283 

Maconachie  considered  a  moment  before  replying: 

"If  Romany  is  as  good  a  man  as  you  think,  he's  not 
going  to  forget  the  main  proposition — our  year  of  fight 
ing  and  mining — because  we  break  training  a  bit  now. 
What  I  mean  is,  if  he  came  back  and  found  Tropicania 
in  our  hands  instead  of  yours, — if  he's  honest,  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference." 

"  There's  a  chance  that  you  are  right,  Mac,"  said  I. 

"  A  good  chance." 

"  But  you  forget  one  thing " 

"Yes?" 

"  That  I'm  in  command." 

"  The  men  can  overcome  that." 

"  That  would  be  breaking  training,"  I  said. 

Maconachie  laughed.  "  You  think  it  would  be  going 
pretty  far?" 

"  Personally — yes.  Like  the  man  about  to  be  hanged, 
who  declared  that  it  was  certainly  going  to  be  a  lesson 
for  him." 

"  The  men  don't  think  Romany  considered  them 
enough  in  putting  you  in  command — you  and  Huntoon. 
You  both  came  in  here  on  a  shoe-string.  You  just 
happened " 

"  The  command  was  a  surprise  to  me,  but  Huntoon 
is  a  leader  of  men,"  I  said  mildly. 

"  There  are  those  who  think  that  Huntoon  is  in  touch 
with  Orion,"  Maconachie  offered,  regarding  me  closely. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  an  investment  in  Tropi 
cania — nor  even  in  the  lives  of  men,  if  I  thought  that." 

"  Does  Huntoon  know  the  way  out  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  How  about  the  Chinaman  ?  " 

"  That's  a  story  I  don't  think  you'd  appreciate,  Mac," 


284  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

I  said.  "  I  hear  the  men  have  been  doing  a  lot  of 
talking  about  the  Chinese  who  came  to  see  me.  He's 
gone  from  here,  but  he  didn't  go  out  the  secret  way. 
That's  as  far  as  I  care  to  go  on  the  subject." 

"  Does  Huntoon  know  this — this  story  I  wouldn't 
appreciate  ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  were  in  China  together  last  year.  The 
old  Master  was  there,  too." 

"  Well,  how  about  those  others — Yarbin  and  his 
woman  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  That's  not  my  affair,  Mac.  The  Chief  was  here 
then." 

We  fell  silent ;  each  felt  the  ground  had  been  covered. 
It  was  a  question  now  of  assuming  the  aggressive. 

Maconachie  arose.  My  attitude  had  puzzled  him. 
"  It's  a  mess,  anyhow,"  he  said  moodily. 

"  I'm  staking  heart  and  hand  on  Romany  fighting 
for  us  to  the  last  ditch." 

"  The  trouble  is — you're  staking  nothing  but  words. 
You  didn't  bring  a  fortune  to  this  game,  Ryerson.  You 
didn't  bring  expert  knowledge.  You  didn't  even  bring 
labor.  .  . .  You're  a  sort  of  called-of-God  proposition " 

"  In  which  case — I  like  my  chance " 

Maconachie  squinted  at  me  peculiarly.  .  .  .  He  knew 
his  Scriptures.  "  David  had  to  flee  to  the  wilderness," 
he  remarked. 

"  The  rest  of  the  story  is  worth  reading,"  I  suggested. 

"Anyway — the  men  don't  like  it " 

Maconachie  called  in  one  leg,  preparing  to  rise. 

"  That  sentence  is  getting  to  be  in  the  air.  And 
what  are  the  men  going  to  do  about  it  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"I  answered  that." 

"And  when?" 


Lost  Valley  285 

"  We  haven't  exactly  determined.  If  you  should 
turn  over  your  command  and  the  gold  quietly — now " 

"  And  so  the  men  see  in  me  nothing — neither  money 
nor  learning  nor  brute  force?  I  wonder  what  Romany 
saw  in  me  when  he  gave  me  command  ?  " 

"  The  men  are — that's  the  point,  Ryerson." 

'"'  The  men  are  on  the  point  of  learning,"  I  remarked, 
" — unless  they  think  it  over  and  give  the  old  Master  a 
few  days  of  grace." 

"  A  day  is  all  I  can  promise,"  said  Maconachie,  shak 
ing  his  head. 

"  And  all  I  can  promise,  is  orders  from  here  as  usual 
— until  Romany  or  his  messengers  return.  Tell  the  men 
that." 

"You  won't  turn  over  the  gold?" 

"  Precisely— not." 

"  It's  in  the  Vatican.    We  can  blast  there " 

"  And  throw  open  to  Orion  the  only  way  of  retreat 
ing  in  case  of  a  pinch.  You'd  never  get  away  with 
that  poor  little  eight  weeks'  eke." 

"  I  think  we'll  get  along  better  than  that,  Ryerson." 

"  So  do  I " 


18 

I  DID  the  natural  thing,  when  Maconachie  left — 
mounted  a  saddle-mule  and  took  my  trouble  to  Huntoon 
at  the  Pass.  He  led  me  to  a  high  perch  in  the  rocks, 
and  listened  with  sullen  intentness,  making  me  think  of 
an  intelligent  pit-terrier. 

"  And  now  we'll  swap  leading  questions,"  he  re 
marked.  "  First :  Is  it  the  men  or  Maconachie  ?  I  mean, 
is  this  Mac  a  disturber?  " 


286  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  I.  "  He  has  little  respect 
for  me,  a  strong  respect  for  Maconachie,  a  gift  of  gab 
and  a  quiet  force  that  has  got  across  with  the  miners. 
He's  a  good  man  in  his  work — a  cool  man.  He  won't 
be  soft  licking." 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  Huntoon  commented,  "  but  I  think 
I'd  have  locked  him  up — nipped  him  for  being  spokes 
man." 

"  I  thought  of  that,  but  he  always  salved  me  a  bit 
after  irritating;  and  then  it  would  be  a  show-down,  to 
lock  up  the  delegate.  Any  hour  may  bring  the  old 
Master.  My  main  question,  Huntoon,  is:  Have  you 
got  the  men — your  men — so  they'll  mind  you  ?  " 

"  Hell — I've  been  honin'  for  a  chance  like  this,"  said 
Huntoon.  "  You  can  count  on  my  brigade.  .  .  .  We 
were  thrown  together,  you  and  I.  We'll  stand  together, 
old  party." 

He  slapped  my  knees,  and  I  saw  the  strong  wine 
of  active  service  in  his  eyes. 

"  You're  in  command  here,  Huntoon.  Maconachie 
may  come  or  send  a  delegate  here.  I  say,  you're  in  com 
mand." 

It  appeared  to  me  afresh  that  I  was  in  command 
generally;  and  that  I  had  been  plenty  soft  so  far.  I 
thought  of  the  old  Master  abroad  and  doing  his  mightiest, 
perhaps  dead,  his  ship  foundered ;  or  even  now,  he  might 
be  back  in  Lost  Valley,  the  California  office  established. 
Every  third  thought,  at  least,  was  of  Mary  Romany, 
radiant  among  the  marguerites,  and  the  adorable  com 
plaint  against  the  crows.  This  crisis  looked  easier  in 
the  masterful  mood  which  became  mine  as  I  rode  back 
to  the  valley. 

That  night  the  miners  did  not  bring  me  the  day's 


Lost  Valley  287 

yield  of  gold.  This  was  a  sign  of  aggressiveness  that 
must  be  answered  with  force.  I  sent  for  Maconachie, 
meanwhile  figuring.  The  men  knew  the  hiding-place 
for  their  garnerings  was  in  the  Vatican ;  knew  that 
Romany  and  the  fifty  had  assembled  there  on  the  eve 
of  departure.  They  counted  upon  a  vault  and  a  passage 
out  of  the  valley.  I  believed  my  last  remark  to 
Maconachie  would  prevent  the  men  trying  to  blast  the 
secret  from  the  old  ruin.  They  must  see  the  danger 
of  laying  open  their  only  possible  retreat,  in  case  the 
Pass  was  taken.  Maconachie  came  in  and  sat  down, 
stretching  out  his  legs  in  my  direction. 

"  Had  a  bad  day  down  in  the  river,  Mac  ?  "  I  asked 
cheerfully. 

"No.    A  good  day." 

"  Saving  the  stuff  to  surprise  Father  later  ?  " 

"  Father  seems  to  anticipate,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

"  In  which  case  you'd  better  bring  it  up  as  usual " 

"  The  men  seemed  to  object " 

"  Cut  the  men,  Mac.  If  you're  taking  up  their  game 
for  them — get  down  to  first-person.  You're  reckonable 
enough.  I'm  not  saying  they  didn't  make  a  good  choice 
when  they  gave  their  affairs  over  to  you.  The  only  thing 
I  object  to  is  a  little  shyster  tendency  of  blaming  every 
thing  on  the  client.  It's  your  case,  Mac.  Romany  will 
see  that." 

He  winced.  Maconachie  didn't  like  the  idea  of  being 
made  an  example  of  in  the  event  of  Romany's  safe 
return. 

"  If  you  don't  have  the  gold  down  here  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,"  I  informed  him,  /'  I'll  have  to 
regard  it  as  insubordination.  That's  the  main  trend. 
That's  the  crossing.  We  can  fight  it  out  after  that, 


288  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

but  we  can  never  overlook  the  fact  that  you  opened  the 
war.  Romany  is  square.  Huntoon  is  square.  I'm 
square.  Hot  tongs  can't  move  me.  Dynamite  the 
Vatican  and  things  will  happen  that  you  don't  dream 
of — we'd  be  a  bunch  of  rabbits." 

Maconachie  went  away.  .  .  .  The  gold  didn't  come 
within  the  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  I  put  on  a  brace 
of  pistols  beneath  my  coat  and  walked  down  to  the 
river. 

The  Riverside  Drive  Inn  was  crowded.  Dole  greeted 
me  effusively.  A  game  was  on;  and  here  the  valley 
women  plied  their  eternal  arts  with  naturalness.  A 
hush  suddenly  possessed  the  outfit.  I  sat  down  at  a 
table — which  was  promptly  vacated  by  the  others  sitting 
there — and  ordered  a  drink.  .  .  . 

The  tension  in  the  valley  had  lifted  the  whiskey 
sale,  as  tension  invariably  does.  It  was  obvious  that 
I  had  more  to  fear  from  this  than  from  Maconachie. 
Dole  was  a  bland  and  mellow  degenerate  with  a  pride 
in  his  hand-grip  and  noisy  good-fellowship.  Alcohol 
had  never  been  a  personal  problem,  so  I  was  inclined 
to  be  easy  in  judgment  of  it,  except  at  times  when,  as 
now,  it  appeared  as  a  disintegrating  factor.  As  I  drank, 
the  laughter  was  resumed  in  a  high  forced  way,  the 
women  overdoing  it. 

"  Dole,"  I  said  suddenly,  "  send  out  for  Maconachie. 
I  want  to  hear  from  the  boys,  but  I  want  Maconachie 
about." 

The  delegate  was  not  far  off.  Again  the  long  un- 
muscled  legs  looped  into  view. 

"  Men,"  said  I,  "  Maconachie  has  brought  me  your 
moods  to-day,  your  troubles,  nerves,  and  general  break 
down.  I  would  have  preferred  to  hear  these  things 


Lost  Valley  289 

first-hand,  though  I  don't  object  to  your  hiring  an 
attorney.  Maconachie,  however,  is  an  engineer  and  a 
good  one.  He's  on  a  salary  from  Romany.  As  the 
representative  of  Romany,  I  object  to  his  using  his  time 
as  a  spreader  of  contagion — that  is,  if  these  few  un 
pleasant  symptoms  amount  to  anything." 

The  miners  were  gathering.  Figures  slipped  in 
quietly  from  the  outer  dark.  Some  of  the  men  edged 
toward  the  bar  and  whispered  their  orders.  It  was  only 
where  the  liquor  was  apparent  that  I  feared  trouble 
from  this  first-hand  treating  with  the  men.  None  of 
the  miners  offered  to  reply,  though  Maconachie  waited 
before  he  spoke.  The  next  half-hour  brought  out  mat 
ters  familiar  from  the  morning  interview  but  Ma 
conachie  had  been  thinking  all  day.  A  sudden  verging 
to  this  effect  was  the  result: 

"  Romany  chose  you,  without  consulting  us,  didn't 
he?" 

"  It  is  not  the  old  Master's  way  to  consult  anybody," 
I  answered. 

"All  right.  The  fact  is,  he  didn't.  Now  it's  a 
question  in  mind,  whether  he  thinks  more  of  you  than 
he  does  of  Tropicania.  Tropicania  is  against  you — not 
personally — but  as  a  leader.  There  are  things  about  you, 
we  don't  understand.  We  think  the  gold  might  be  put 
into  safer  hands.  If  Romany  returned  to  find  you  out 
of  power  and  Tropicania  running  along  in  order,  it 
isn't  giving  me  much  thought  as  to  his  accepting  the 
situation  like  the  gamester  he  is." 

"  You  all  forget  that  I  am  master  of  the  situation," 
I  answered  coldly.  "  Romany  chose  me — confided  cer 
tain  intimate  matters.  I  still  hold  these.  It  is  possible 
that  I  might  be  physically  overpowered,  but  you  can't 
19 


290  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

take  what  I  have  and  know ;  nor  what  I  have  been  using, 
and  mean  to  use,  for  the  good  of  all.  You  can't  take 
the  gold  of  the  last  eight  weeks.  You  can't  get  the  gold 
of  the  past  year.  I  might  turn  over  authority,  but  I'd  feel 
like  a  cur  myself.  And  I  don't  propose  to  feel  so.  I'll 
run  this  valley  until  Romany  comes  in,  or  we  decide  to 
move  out.  If  you  overpower  me,  I  can  see  you  fellows 
beginning  all  over  again  in  some  new  Tropicania, — 
that  is,  those  who  escape  Orion." 

I  raised  my  hand  against  the  growing  murmur,  and 
launched  into  a  narration  of  the  career  of  Romany ;  how 
the  old  promoter  had  played  true  to  his  friends  in  differ 
ent  ways  for  twenty-five  years.  I  told  of  the  difficulties 
he  had  to  confront  on  this  trip;  my  idea  of  service  to 
him  and  to  the  men ;  but  most  of  all,  my  idea  of  service 
to  myself,  which  did  not  include  truckling  nor  yielding, 
nor  mob-fear. 

"  You're  all  right,  you  fellows,"  I  finished,  "  only 
you  don't  give  the  old  Master  credit  for  choosing  his 
man.  Sit  tight  for  a  few  days — say  ten  days.  If  the 
Chief  doesn't  come  back  within  ten  days,  I'll  lead  you 
forth  with  the  gold  you  have — quietly  as  the  fifty  went — 
without  Orion  knowing  until  some  morning  when  he 
wakes  up  to  find  the  Pass  undefended.  Meanwhile  every 
day  is  a  big  winning.  I'll  take  care  of  the  gold  as  usual ; 
the  Pass  will  be  held;  the  plans  of  Romany  will  be 
carried  out,  and  your  interests  guarded,  as  Romany 
guards  them — with  his  life.  I  do  not  claim  his  genius." 

My  talk  made  a  dent.  The  men  gathered  into  little 
knots.  They  saw  they  were  up  against  darkness  in  the 
Vatican — up  against  the  fear  of  cutting  off  their  retreat 
or  leaving  it  wide  open  to  Orion.  ...  In  the  muttering 


Lost  Valley  291 

and  talking  I  arose — and  said  to  Dole,  glancing  at 
my  watch: 

"  Now's  a  time  when  I  don't  want  whiskey  running 
free.  Close  within  an  hour  and  come  up  to  Headquarters 
before  you  open  in  the  morning." 

He  looked  at  me  peculiarly.  I  said  no  more  about 
the  day's  yield  of  gold.  .  .  .  An  hour  passed,  and  Dole 
had  not  obeyed.  I  sent  a  message  to  Huntoon.  In  the 
meantime  Dole  closed.  The  next  morning,  however, 
the  place  was  opened,  and  Dole  had  not  come  to  confer 
with  me  as  ordered.  I  sent  Huntoon  and  a  dozen  men 
to  shut  him  up. 

A  small  guard  was  left  at  the  locked  door  of  the 
Riverside  Drive  Inn.  Dole  was  brought  to  me. 

"  As  I  understand  it,"  I  said,  "  you're  a  sort  of  sutler 
to  this  outfit.  You  haven't  any  equity  in  Tropicania  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered  sullenly. 

"You  don't  know  your  business,  Dole,"  I  said. 
"  Everybody  hates  a  sutler — officer  and  man  alike  hate  a 
sutler.  He  hasn't  any  glow  upon  him.  He's  out  for  the 
naked  dollar.  His  only  excuse  for  living  is  to  obey  orders. 
You  didn't  know  this.  I'm  going  to  lock  you  up." 

"  Huntoon,"  I  said,  when  we  were  alone,  "  how  did 
the  men  take  it  ?  " 

"  They  growled  a  bit." 

"  I've  got  another  little  job  for  you — but  I  think 
you'll  need  a  few  more  men.  However,  leave  plenty 
at  the  Pass." 

"  The  bridge  is  up,"  he  answered.  "  The  size  of  the 
force  there  is  largely  a  moral  dodge." 

"  You'd  better  get  about  twenty  men  more  down 
here  within  an  hour  or  so — as  quietly  as  you  can." 


292  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

This  was  done.  The  miners  hadn't  counted  on  the 
fighting-end  being  so  morbidly  fond  of  Huntoon.  I  sent 
the  latter  down  to  stop  work  on  the  dredge,  until  the 
previous  day's  yield  of  gold  should  be  delivered  to  me  at 
Headquarters.  .  .  .  Huntoon  left  a  guard  on  the  dredge 
and  returned  to  me. 

"  How  did  the  men  take  it,  Huntoon  ?  "  I  asked  when, 
we  were  alone. 

"  They  growled  a  bit,"  he  said  with  a  grin. 

19 

ON  the  night  that  ended  the  eight  weeks  of  Romany's 
absence  (night  before  last,  from  the  present  moment  of 
the  narrative),  I  had  written  to  Mary  Romany  in  Lost 
Valley.  I  repeated  the  sentence  I  had  heard  from  her 
lips,  as  she  stood  among  the  marguerites.  A  curious 
power  came  over  me  as  I  wrote. 

I  told  her  of  Yuan  Kang  Su;  how  the  tragedy  had 
put  a  queer  restraint  upon  my  faculties,  until  her  letters 
from  Guayaquil  unlocked  them  again.  I  told  her  of 
the  undoings  of  the  valley;  how  the  sight  of  her  had 
replenished  me  with  strength ;  and  with  what  new  zeal 
I  had  grasped  the  work  in  Tropicania.  She  was  the 
essence  of  the  meaning  for  my  life  on  earth;  every 
thought  and  action  of  my  mind  and  hand,  drew  from 
her  an  added  impulse  and  incentive.  ...  I  thrilled  with 
pride  that  this  was  so.  I  told  her  how  loving  had 
brought  to  my  intelligence  a  strange  solid  adjustment 
to  all  times;  that  I  was  certain  in  my  soul  that  we  had 
met  before  on  the  road  of  living  men,  perhaps  as  half- 
strangers,  perhaps  to  travel  for  but  a  little  way,  in  dusk 
or  darkness,  and  falteringly;  but  that  we  were  destined 


Lost  Valley  293 

again  to  take  the  Great  Highway  together  in  full  morn 
ing  and  on  to  the  end.  .  .  . 

That  same  night  I  carried  the  letter  through  the 
Vatican  and  vault  and  passage  and  up  the  winding  shelf 
— and  there  left  it  (pinned  with  a  pennant  to  a  bamboo 
cane),  plainly  to  be  seen  from  the  spot  where  she  had 
stood  upon  the  terrace. 

.  .  .  What  with  Maconachie  yesterday  and  Dole 
and  other  sullen  affairs,  I  had  no  chance  to  make  a 
love-pilgrimage;  but  now,  with  the  dredge  and  Dole's 
bar  shut  down,  and  Huntoon  spread  like  a  fine  metal 
armor  over  the  Valley  and  the  Pass,  I  hurried  to  the 
Vatican.  My  last  look  from  the  great  iron  door  still 
clings  queerly  to  memory — the  hushed  valley,  the  silent 
dredge,  the  lounging  human  figures,  the  mid-day  sun 
mastering  the  scene — fixed  as  in  a  dream.  The  Vatican 
was  dim  and  warm  and  still.  Water  bubbled  in  the 
key-bores,  the  panel  swung,  the  tunnel  entrance  opened; 
the  gold  lay  in  its  tarpaulin  shroud,  the  lantern  showed 
me  the  way  to  the  mouth,  and  the  little  pennant  fluttered 
above  the  shining  rim  of  the  gorge,  a  letter  pinned  to 
it — but  not  the  one  I  had  left.  And  this  time  there  was 
no  smudged  Libertad  post-mark.  .  .  . 

So  I  knew  that  I  was  not  mad,  nor  dead  (with  my 
spirit  fixed  in  a  strange  Tropicania  dream  centuries 
long). 

From  the  pages,  I  looked  over  Lost  Valley  and  to 
the  terrace  where  I  had  seen  the  vision  among  the 
marguerites.  Only  the  silent  flaming  day.  If  Mary 
Romany  watched  for  my  coming  to  the  pennant,  it  was 
not  for  me  to  know.  .  .  .  That  half-hour,  I  forgot  the 
valleys  and  the  world  of  men. 

.  .  .  She  could  not  find  words  to  tell  of  her  happiness. 


294  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Her  father  had  told  her  all  he  could  about  me,  but  there 
had  been  no  old  letters,  since  he  went  away.  Once,  she 
had  been  on  the  point  of  calling  through  the  mountain- 
door,  when  I  came  with  the  gold  at  night.  She  had 
prayed  for  strength  not  to  do  this — and  then  my  letter 
had  come.  ...  It  had  been  impossible  to  remain  in  the 
North.  At  first  she  had  meant  to  come  only  to  Bar- 
ranquilla;  then  she  had  been  drawn  down  to  Guayaquil; 
finally  Libertad  magnetized  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  had  been 
in  the  room  next  that  night.  Her  father  tried  to  surprise 
her;  had  not  mentioned  that  I  was  coming  to  Libertad, 
and  half-hoped  that  if  we  met,  the  spell  of  the  Year 
would  be  broken,  and  I  would  bring  her  back  joyfully. 
She  had  made  it  plain  to  her  father,  thereupon,  what  the 
Year  meant.  Afterward,  he  had  suggested  Lost  Valley, 
not  describing  it  in  the  letter,  only  stating  that  she  would 
be  safer,  nearer,  yet  just  as  invisible.  I  had  been  sent 
to  the  other  end  of  the  valley  the  night  she  arrived. 

I  smiled  now  at  my  search  for  Maconachie  in  that 
"  gloaming,"  as  he  called  it,  while  the  pack-train  came 
in  with  the  letters. 

.  .  .  Her  father  had  summoned  her  quickly  to  the 
Vatican  on  the  day  I  was  hurt.  She  had  made  him 
promise  to  call  her  in  such  an  emergency.  She  was 
greatly  troubled  now  about  the  extended  absence  of  her 
father.  The  eight  weeks  had  been  harder  to  bear  than 
the  others,  because  she  had  been  accustomed  to  talk 
with  him  in  the  evenings  when  he  brought  the  gold; 
and  since  he  left,  our  valley  was  so  far  off  and  incom 
municable.  .  .  .  Yes,  they  were  very  comfortable.  The 
Yarbins  were  with  her.  There  was  food  in  abundance; 
they  had  tried  to  plant  a  garden.  .  .  .  Five  weeks  more  of 
our  Year.  She  was  afraid  to  alter  that — our  probation 


Lost  Valley  295 

time — unless  something  happened.  She  had  needed  the 
Year.  It  was  wonderful  and  dear — every  day  of  it— 
but  I  was  to  come  to  her  in  any  sudden  stress  or  mis 
fortune.  "  Yes,  oh,  come  to  me." 

.  .  .  Such  was  my  letter.  I  hurried  down  to  the 
curve  of  the  shelving  trail  and  knelt  with  bared  head 
for  a  moment,  in  homage  and  happiness;  then  wrote 
hastily  a  reply,  leaving  it  pinned  to  the  pennant. 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  without  significance  in  the 
placer  community.  I  rode  to  the  Pass,  which  looked 
to  be  amply  guarded,  in  spite  of  the  detachment  which 
Huntoon  had  drawn.  The  river  was  silent.  The  spirits 
of  all  the  forgotten  and  neglected  Sabbaths  communed 
there.  I  realized  the  evil  of  idleness,  but  at  no  time  did 
I  regret  my  decisions  in  regard  to  the  Inn  and  the 
Dredge.  A  magic  strength  came  over  the  impassable 
range  from  Lost  Valley — a  strange  sustaining. 

"  It  will  all  come  out  right,"  I  told  the  men.  "  We 
can  afford  to  shut  down  for  a  day  or  two.  Maconachie 
is  thinking  hard.  He'll  decide  what's  best  for  you " 

I  couldn't  forbear  this  last  shot.  It  was  just  what 
the  men  objected  to — having  things  decided  for  them.  I 
saw  they  wanted  a  figure-head  and  not  a  dictator,  unless 
the  dictator  be  Romany. 

Maconachie  himself  came  and  went;  he  seemed  to 
contain  hot  inimical  fluids,  which  hurt  and  pressed  for 
utterance,  but  could  not  find  the  way  forth.  His  position 
was  a  hard  one.  I  made  it  harder  because  he  was  young 
and  obstinate  and  had  consented  to  be  the  instrument 
of  the  men's  evil.  He  had  misjudged  me,  and  the 
miners  likewise;  they  had  misjudged  Huntoon.  The 
soldier  in  the  latter  had  won  his  men;  his  was  the  stuff 
of  captains.  Moreover,  it  was  enough  for  his  men  that 


296  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Huntoon  obeyed  me.  The  miners  seemed  to  think  my 
sudden  hard-handedness  a  pose.  I  believed  they  were 
afraid  to  injure  me,  however,  because  of  the  secrets.  I 
kept  before  them  the  need  of  outwitting  Orion  at  the 
last;  emphasized  the  fact  that  we  could  not  get  out  of 
Tropicania  with  a  pocketful  of  gold,  unless  we  sat  tight 
and  pulled  together.  I  made  it  extra  clear  that  the  bit 
of  knowledge  in  my  brain  was  the  most  valuable  and 
pertinent  thing  in  the  works.  Naturally,  the  miners, 
in  the  human  need  of  venting  their  savagery  upon  some 
thing  tangible,  chose  Maconachie.  I  let  him  worry — 
in  no  way  prodding  for  the  suppressed  disorder  of  his 
mind.  The  situation  did  not  look  to  me  devoid  of  per 
sonal  advantage — as  the  sun  sank  behind  the  seaward 
range  that  night.  .  .  .  The  day  would  linger  a  moment 
in  Lost  Valley,  after  deep  night  had  fallen  upon 
Tropicania. 

Yet  I  did  not  sleep.  Everything  was  in  order  at 
the  river  property  at  nine  o'clock.  Huntoon  had  left  a 
guard  at  the  dredge  and  the  Inn,  and  had  stationed  a 
detachment  within  easy  reach  on  the  rising  trail  toward 
the  Pass.  He  was  with  this  party  for  the  night.  As  I 
lay  in  the  darkness,  somewhat  of  a  reaction  settled  upon 
my  mind,  following  my  various  phases  of  effrontery 
during  the  day.  ...  At  midnight,  there  was  a  strangled 
cry  from  <my  sentry,  as  if  he  had  been  noosed  from 
behind,  and  a  quick,  almost  noiseless  struggle  as  he  was 
overpowered.  I  sprang  from  the  cot,  seized  my  pistols, 
and  struck  a  match.  This  was  precisely  the  wrong 
thing  to  do,  but  there  was  no  right  thing.  In  the  flare, 
four  masked  men  appeared,  and  I  saw  the  ugly  gleam 


Lost  Valley  297 

of  their  pistols — with  mine  not  raised.  I  touched  the 
match  to  the  candle,  and  held  my  hand  steady,  saying : 

"  Hello,  here's  melodrama — or  is  it  because  you  fel 
lows  hate  yourselves  that  you  wear  masks  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  The  reek  of  whiskey  defiled 
the  place.  A  voice  ordered  my  guns  to  the  table.  I 
obeyed.  The  four  closed  in ;  the  candle  was  struck  out ; 
an  arm  was  hooked  from  behind  about  my  throat,  a 
hand  covering  the  mouth.  I  was  nauseated  by  the 
fumes  of  alcohol,  potent  to  my  nostrils  as  if  pure  spirit 
had  been  poured  upon  their  clothing — the  result  when 
men  not  naturally  saturated  with  liquor  suddenly  con 
sume  a  great  quantity.  It  seemed  to  accentuate  the  odor 
of  soiled  bodies.  .  .  .  Queerly  occurred  to  my  mind  now 
the  intrinsic  and  persistent  devilishness  of  whiskey.  In 
spite  of  my  foresight,  it  had  risen  to  defeat  order  and 
usefulness.  I  did  not  give  the  men,  by  resistance,  an 
excuse  to  abuse  me  excessively.  The  cowardly  nature 
of  the  whole  proceeding  at  first  made  me  more  em 
barrassed  and  ashamed,  than  frightened.  .  .  .  They  gagged 
me,  took  the  key  to  the  Vatican  from  my  clothing,  and 
led  me  there.  No  sound  that  would  arouse  Huntoon 
and  his  detachment  escaped  my  captors  as  we  gained 
the  slope  to  the  great  iron  door.  Now  others  joined 
the  party,  which  numbered  a  dozen  or  more,  all  masked. 
The  Vatican  was  entered  and  shut  from  within.  The 
drunken  crew  gathered  about  me. 

Quite  coldly,  the  realization  came  that  I  was  to  be 
hazed  for  the  secret.  Maconachie  tried  to  get  in — I 
heard  his  voice  outside  the  door — but  the  men  refused. 
Was  it  a  game  or  was  Maconachie  really  against  this 
night's  work?  My  mind  was  irritated  by  the  frequent 


298  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

recurrence  of  another  question,  how  these  men  had 
obtained  the  whiskey. 

There  was  an  instant  of  inquisitional  horror  as  a 
reeling  pair  stripped  me  to  the  skin  above  the  waist. 
They  removed  the  gag,  bound  my  hands,  and  tossed 
the  rope  over  the  upper  frame  of  the  cistern,  drawing 
it  tightly.  Flashes  of  insane  fury  passed  through  me,  as 
I  felt  the  first  tension,  yet  I  kept  my  mouth  shut.  The 
men  now  sat  down  in  the  circle  of  candle-light.  The 
utter  ridiculousness  of  the  picture  struck  my  mind,  in 
one  of  its  desperate  reflexes.  I  did  not  suppress  the 
impulse  to  laugh  aloud. 

"  You  fellows  make  me  think  of  a  lot  of  stage-hand 
train-robbers,  all  masked  in  my  honor." 

A  voice  which  I  had  heard  before  but  couldn't 
identify  now,  chuckled  in  answer :  "  You're  pretty  fresh 
yet,  but  you'll  get  over  being  fresh — that  is,  if  you're 
stubborn  about  our  little  request.  If  you're  nice  about 
it,  we  won't  go  no  further " 

The  speaker  paused  to  take  a  pull  at  his  flask,  others 
following  his  example;  then  he  resumed: 

"  Now,  Mr.  Ryerson,  we  want  the  eight  weeks'  gold 
and  the  way  out  through  the  Vatican " 

"  Can  you  read ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  eagerly. 

"  What's  printed  on  a  man's  brain  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  unknown  one  said  slowly,  "  but  I  think 
we  can  stretch  it  out  before  morning,"  and  he  yanked 
the  rope  tighter,  until  I  lifted  weight  from  my  heels  to 
ease  the  cutting  on  the  wrists. 

"  It's  your  only  chance,"  said  I,  steadily  as  possible. 
Dark  red  flamed  before  my  eyes.  "  Your  only  chance — 
to  trepan  for  what  I  know.  .  .  .  And  all  I've  got  to  add 


Lost  Valley  299 

before  jaws  shut  for  the  night  is  that,  the  time  will 
come,  when  you  fellows  will  sicken  at  the  thought  of 
mask  and  rope " 

And  then  they  all  heard  my  teeth  click,  as  I  in 
tended  they  should.  I  meant  to  say  no  more.  .  .  . 

In  the  next  three  hours  I  learned  much  about  myself, 
and  was  not  mortally  hurt,  soul  nor  body.  My  silence 
made  them  afraid.  Neither  I,  nor  they,  would  have 
broken  into  madness  but  for  the  fresh  supply  of  whiskey 
that  was  brought.  There  had  been  a  struggle  at  the 
great  door  (by  which  I  judged  that  Maconachie  was 
still  there)  then  a  long  interval  until  the  signal  to  open 
came  again.  They  gathered  about  the  newcomer  greedily. 
I  saw  them  restoring  their  rage  and  deviltry,  every 
fiery  throatful  a  fresh  phase  of  hell  for  me.  .  .  .  They 
were  sick  with  it  and  for  it.  The  sight  of  them  broke 
my  word  and  my  silence: 

"  That's  your  bravery,"  I  shouted  at  them,  and  my 
voice  opened  closets  of  hatred.  "  That's  your  deviltry — 
the  cheap  deviltry  of  whiskey.  You  are  the  herd — that 
runs  from  the  storm  and  forgets  the  precipice.  You 
serve  others  because  you  have  not  yet  begun  to  be  men. 
That's  your  dignity  of  labor.  That  is  why  you  do  the 
heavy  work  of  the  world  for  the  smallest  wage — be 
cause  you  are  under-men.  That  is  why  you  are  herded 
and  looted  and  despoiled;  that  is  why  you  wear 
masks " 

A  blow  upon  the  face  shot  fire  along  my  spine.  My 
whole  weight  for  an  instant  fell  upon  my  wrists.  Then, 
I  was  whipped  with  the  slack  of  the  rope,  and  with 
each  lash  the  fire  rose  in  my  brain  like  the  gushing  of 
an  oil-well.  ...  A  voice  reached  me  saying : 


300  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

"  The  stubborn  beast  will  kill  himself — and  then 
where'll  we  be  at?  " 

One  lifted  a  candle  to  my  face  as  the  sentence  was 
uttered,  and  poked  up  my  eyelid  roughly.  I  think  he 
was  frightened  at  what  he  saw.  I  repeat,  much  was 
revealed  to  me  about  myself.  .  .  .  But  the  reaction 
turned  against  me. 

"  Where'll  we  be  at,  if  we  don't  kill  him?  Kill  him 
— that's  the  thing.  .  .  .  Living  God,  he  won't  die.  Untie 
his  wrists  and  hang  him  by  the  neck.  .  .  .  Yes — get  him 
dead  and  out  of  sight — into  the  cistern.  .  .  .  It's  him  or 
us.  He'll  have  us  hung — if  we  don't  get  him." 

Then  I  was  upon  the  floor — a  hundred  hoofs  stamp 
ing  upon  my  arms,  it  seemed,  as  the  blood  poured  back 
into  them.  I  saw  the  end  of  the  night  through  the 
broken  places  of  the  roof.  I  felt  their  hideous  fright, 
because  I  would  not  die.  .  .  .  They  had  not  meant  this, 
but  they  were  driven  by  one  another  and  alcohol  and  my 
words.  ...  I  did  not  see  Dole,  nor  hear  his  voice,  but 
it  came  from  within — as  the  rope  tightened  about  my 
neck.  I  shouted  the  single  word : 

"  Dole—" 

They  were  running  to  bring  a  box.  I  was  lifted. 
There  were  voices  against  this — but  to  one  man  there, 
it  was  life — that  I  hang.  The  word  surged  up  through 
my  throat  again: 

"  Dole—" 

A  life-long  horror  of  hanging  had  no  place  in  my 
mind  now.  It  seemed  absurdly  fastidious.  ...  I  heard  a 
woman's  cry — and  another  woman's  cry.  I  thought  it 
the  end,  that  they  had  kicked  the  box  out  from  under. 
.  .  .  The  sudden  change  in  the  men's  voices  puzzled  me, 
and  the  world  heaving  under  my  feet ;  it  puzzled  me  that 


Lost  Valley  301 

the  box  seemed  still  to  be  there. .  .  .  Then  I  knew  it  went, 
and  my  hands,  which  they  had  foolishly  bound — broke 
away  and  flew  upward  to  my  throat.  Then  there  was 
clinging  about  my  limbs — clinging  arms  that  lifted  my 
weight — and  the  breath  of  the  yellow  rose. 

From  afar  off,  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  other  woman : 

".  .  .  Get  him  down  .  .  .  rope  off  before  Romany 
comes.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  don't  touch  him.  You're  not  fit 
to  light  a  cigarette  in  the  same  house.  .  .  .  And  now  get 
out  of  here.  You  don't  belong  with  women  who  know 
a  full-length  man  when  they  see  him.  Go  down  to  the 
women  on  the  river.  It's  your  sort  who  make  that  kind 
of  women — go  to  them — before  Romany  comes." 

I  heard  the  great  door  open,  and  the  scuffle  of 
feet.  .  .  .  But  a  voice  of  one  man  who  had  not  moved, 
demanded  the  way  the  woman  had  entered  the  Vatican. 
Her  laugh  must  have  burned  him  in  answer — the  laugh 
of  a  woman  who  had  known  men  of  his  sort,  at  their 
best  and  worst. 

"  Show  you?  Do  you  think  we  stole  in  to  show 
you?  .  .  .  The  old  Chief  will  let  you  out — those  of  you 
he  doesn't  hang " 

They  were  sneaking  away.  The  name  of  Romany 
had  helped  her.  I  tried  to  see  my  friend,  Lillian  Yarbin, 
in  her  rage ;  but  only  dimly  could  I  see  the  other  woman 
much  nearer  me.  .  .  . 

"  Get  out  of  here "  I  heard  a  last  time.  "  The 

air  is  vile  with  you.  Go  and  wash  in  the  river — wash 
the  blood  from  your  hands.  See  if  you  can  wash  the 
fear  from  your  eyes — for  Romany  will  look  into  them, 
and  there'll  be  hell  to  pay " 

I    heard   the   last   of   the   foot-steps — the   voice   of 


302  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

Maconachie  refused  entrance — the  crash  of  the  great 
door — the  scornful  laugh  of  Lillian  Yarbin — and  then 
the  whispers  of  Mary  Romany. 

20 

I  HAD  swooned  in  the  silence.  .  .  .  From  afar  off  I 
heard  the  sound  of  falling  water,  and  drawing  near,  for 
I  was  athirst,  it  was  not  a  water-fall  I  found,  but  a 
woman  weeping;  and  then  the  wild  woodland  place 
through  which  I  had  hastened,  changed  to  the  gray 
stone  temple  of  the  Quichuans,  and  the  woman — Mary 
Romany.  .  .  .  Some  scarfy  thing  she  had  worn  covered 
my  bare  arms  and  chest — but  not  enough.  In  trying  to 
think  what  had  become  of  my  shirt, — it  all  came  back, 
and  the  woman  felt  me  shudder,  but  it  did  not  happen 
again. 

Lillian  Yarbin  brought  water  from  the  cistern.  I 
drank,  and  they  bathed  my  face  and  neck,  and  my  hands, 
which  were  black  in  the  bad  light;  and  whiter  than  be 
fore,  in  that  bad  light,  was  the  hair  of  Mary  Romany 
at  the  temples.  And  I  asked  if  they  saw  a  man's  shirt 
about  anywhere.  It  was  found,  trampled.  They  seemed 
horrified  when  I  arose,  but  begged  me  to  come  with 
them  into  Lost  Valley.  .  .  . 

It  was  true  that  Mary's  father  was  coming.  They 
had  seen  his  camp-fire  on  the  opposite  ridge,  fourteen 
miles  away,  last  night.  He  would  start  early  and  be 
here  within  two  hours.  At  least,  they  hoped  her  father 
was  with  the  party.  .  .  .  They  had  been  unable  to  sleep; 
had  left  Yarbin  watching  and  gone  down  into  the  Canyon 
with  the  first  light.  She  had  been  drawn  down  there, 
Mary  Romany  said.  From  the  passage  they  heard 
voices  in  the  Vatican.  .  .  . 


Lost  Valley  303 

I  stood  upon  the  platform  behind  the  altar-stone  and 
they  brought  me  water.  ...  I  told  them  I  would  go 
to  the  valley  to  prepare  for  her  father's  coming;  that 
all  would  be  well  there ;  that  only  a  few  had  gone  wrong 
with  the  whiskey;  that  I  was  tired,  but  quite  well. 

"  You  will  not  let  us  stay  with  you  ?  "  Lillian  Yarbin 
asked,  but  the  other  had  asked  it  first  with  her  eyes. 

"  No,  I  want  you  to  meet  him  in  the  other  valley — 
and  to  say  that  all  is  well " 

As  the  water  bubbled  in  the  key-bores,  I  heard  the 
far  sound  of  firing.  The  women  heard  it,  and  asked. 

"  It  is  Huntoon  practicing  at  the  Pass.  .  .  .  He  knew 
nothing  of  this " 

I  held  the  panel  open.  I  remember  the  arms  of 
Mary  Romany  as  I  bade  her  go,  and  again  bade  her 
go  ...  and  the  big  trachyte  panel  slipping  back. 

And  now  I  was  alone,  and  sank  forward  on  the 
altar-stone,  and  I  wanted  the  woman's  arms.  The  firing 
lifted  me  again.  I  had  lied  about  that.  I  moved  across 
the  Vatican  as  one  in  a  dream. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  furious  reverse  in  my  mind 
from  hatred  to  happiness.  It  was  like  a  plunge  in  a  pool 
of  sheer  joy.  I  held  the  Vatican ;  a  fight  was  on  at  the 
Pass.  ...  If  Orion  had  surprised  the  diminished  com 
mand  there,  and  taken  the  position — the  beasts  who  had 
tortured  me  were  penned  in  the  valley.  I  had  but  to 
swoon — to  let  go  and  sink  to  the  stone.  .  .  . 

For  ten  seconds,  at  least,  I  was  a  slave  to  this  poison. 
My  hand  flew  along  the  inner  locks  of  the  great  iron 
door — all  shot  and  effectively  barring  out  the  miners 
and  the  soldiers.  It  was  not  I — for  I  was  not  all  there — 
just  another  reflex  of  the  night  of  agony.  .  .  .  And  now 


304  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

I  heard  running  feet  and  the  spent  and  husky  voice  of 
Maconachie : 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Ryerson — open  the  door " 

Tears  came  to  my  eyes,  as  I  remembered  the  night; 
and  the  queer  honest  length  of  the  "  o "  in  God  from 
his  lips,  made  a  babe  of  me.  I  was  already  reversing 
the  locks. 

"What  is  it,  Mac?"  I  called. 

"  There's  a  fight  at  the  Pass — and  it  sounds  nearer. 
.  .  .  I've  gathered  the  women,  and  the  men  are  standing 
for  your  orders — the  drunken  lot.  For  God's  sake,  open 
— and  take  over  the  command.  It's  all  up,  if  you 
don't." 

I  pushed  back  the  great  iron  door  and  squinted  at  the 
red  of  morning.  Maconachie  fell  back  from  the  sight 
of  me.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  they  thrawned  me  a  bit,  Mac.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
know  you  didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  Dole's 
whiskey " 

"  They  overpowered  Huntoon's  guard  at  the  Inn," 
he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  couldn't  stop  them.  I  told  them 
I  was  done  with  them." 

The  women  of  the  placer  passed  into  the  Vatican — 
and  many  of  them  shrank  from  me.  The  poor  creatures 
had  'felt  the  brunt  of  the  night's  lawlessness.  Down  by 
the  river  the  miners  were  running  to  and  fro,  many 
already  started  toward  us.  And  now  I  saw  a  mule  gal 
loping  furiously  on  the  trail  down  from  the  Pass.  It 
was  the  old  gray  vixen  that  had  creased  me.  .  .  . 
Maconachie  signaled  the  rider,  who  was  reining  toward 
Headquarters.  He  turned  his  mount  like  a  flash.  Fifty 
feet  away,  the  fiery  beast  stepped  in  a  rut — sprawled 
and  slid  with  thud  and  groan.  The  courier  launched 


Lost  Valley  305 

forward  until  the  bridal-rein,  which  he  had  not  dropped, 
brought  him  whirling  to  the  turf.  It  was  a  most  sensa 
tional  delivery.  .  .  .  Maconachie  and  I  picked  up  the 
messenger,  whose  face  was  twisted  with  the  torture 
of  a  mid-riff  vacuum.  His  lips  moved,  but  it  was 
several  seconds  before  he  had  air  enough  to  sound  the 
words : 

"  Orion  has  taken  the  Pass.  .  .  .  The  men  are  holding 
a  bit — but  must  give  way.  Huntoon  has  joined  them 
to  slow  up  the  retreat,  so  you  fellows  will  have  a 
chance." 

I  ordered  the  courier  into  the  Vatican,  and  sent 
Maconachie  to  bring  up  the  miners  in  what  order  he 
could,  and  took  the  post  at  the  great  door,  watching 
the  ascending  trail  to  the  Pass.  I  was  still  dazed. 

The  old  gray  mule  arose,  snorted,  shook  herself, 
and  turned  about  toward  the  Pass  at  a  fast  walk. 

And  now  the  miners  were  crowding  in ;  and  I  watched 
those  who  hastened  with  averted  eyes  into  the  gloom 
of  the  Vatican.  They  hurried  out  of  the  light — as 
children  from  a  dark  room.  Shame  and  fear  and 
nausea  twitched  upon  lip  and  nostril  and  eyelid;  others 
fresh-awakened  from  stupor  were  even  more  swollen 
and  deathly.  I  have  seen  it  since, — where  one  is  rudely 
aroused  from  the  death  of  drink — the  look  of  Lazarus 
newly-called.  .  .  .  And  Dole  looked  at  me  genially;  and 
Dole's  hair  was  subdued  with  much  river-water,  and  his 
face  clean  and  his  eyes  bright.  He  seldom  drank  his 
stuff.  I  had  a  suspicion  that  it  would  be  hard  for  me 
to  forget  Dole. 

It  didn't  occur  until  afterward  how  I  must  have 
looked  to  them — my  face  altered,  my  wrists  and  hands 
20 


306  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

blackened  and  swollen,  my  throat  covered  to  the  chin 
with  Mary  Romany's  scarf. ...  It  was  a  hideous  moment ; 
yet  matters  were  conducted  with  speed. 

"  You  men,  not  too  drunk,  take  guns  and  shells. 
Cover  the  retreat  of  our  soldiers,"  I  ordered.  "  Give 
them  something  to  fall  back  upon.  Don't  stand  for 
much  fire,  but  make  a  show  of  reserves  to  check  the 
rush  of  Orion.  .  .  .  And  you  women  stay  in.  Sit  down 
and  rest.  It's  all  right.  The  old  Master  is  expected 
to-day." 

Swiftness  was  needed.  Orion  had  swarmed  over  the 
Pass  and  was  driving  Huntoon  five  to  one.  .  .  .  Ma- 
conachie,  with  a  party,  was  bringing  food  and  valuables 
from  the  settlement,  though  there  were  extensive  stores 
in  the  Vatican-vault  and  beyond.  A  line  was  formed 
on  the  slope.  The  eagerness  of  the  men  to  obey  my 
voice  caught  strangely  at  my  heart.  .  .  .  Presently  I 
saw  Huntoon's  men  under  fire  as  they  were  crowded 
down  from  the  Pass. 

The  dawn  rolled  up  like  fire-lit  smoke  behind  the 
mountains;  its  mighty  grandeur  curiously  foreign  that 
hour,  after  what  I  had  known  in  the  night  of  men  and 
myself  and  the  world.  Even  the  firing  seemed  small 
and  inconsequential.  .  .  .  Out  of  it  all  came  timidly  at 
first  the  memory  of  my  love  across  the  range;  I  had 
not  rightly  realized  her  in  the  Vatican.  For  long,  she 
had  been  driven  from  mind  by  torture  and  hatred — a 
beastly  combination  when  alive  in  a  man,  but  now  de 
vouring  itself.  It  is  true,  I  did  not  hate  these  men  now. 
Maconachie  warmed  me  with  his  zeal.  His  voice  through 
the  iron  door — a  hard  man's  giving  up  in  great  stress 
— had  been  all  I  needed.  .  .  .  And  some  of  those  who 
had  passed  into  the  Vatican,  and  some  who  had  gone 


Lost  Valley  307 

forth  into  the  line — had  tortured  me.  How  far  torture 
was  from  their  minds  now.  And  I  might  have  done  the 
cheap  thing;  might  have  failed  to  serve  and  save  them. 
Something  came  to  me  this  moment  from  the  woman 
beyond  the  mountain.  This  wa*  the  moment  of  life's 
renewal.  I  ran  out  to  the  line. 

"  We  won't  hang  around  here  long  enough  to  get 
cut  up,  fellows,"  I  called,  "  just  long  enough  to  show 
Orion  we're  lined  and  in  order — just  to  give  Huntoon 
and  the  boys  a  cushion  to  land  upon.  They're  fighting 
for  us — and  the  Vatican  is  open  and  ours.  And  we've 
got  a  get-away  that  Orion  doesn't  know " 

A  cheer  came  up  to  me  from  the  miners.  That 
cheer  choked  me  to  tears — as  torture  had  not  done.  And 
the  fight  was  on,  the  steel  singing. 

"  Fall  back  now — easy,  men.  There's  plenty  of  time 
for  a  last  look  at  the  golden  river — a  last  look  at  the 
old  river  and  the  dredge.  .  .  .  Orion  can  have  it  now 
— and  the  gold  is  all  cached  away  in  the  Vatican.  .  .  . 
And  I  say,  men,  look  at  Huntoon,  at  his  day's  work. 
The  old  Master  knew  a  soldier " 

"  And  he  knew  the  boss  of  us  all,"  a  hoarse  voice 
said  significantly,  "  but  we  didn't " 

"  We're  all  one  piece  now,"  I  called  back,  enthralled 
by  the  figure  of  Huntoon,  who  knew  how  to  charge 
and  how  to  stand,  and  what  was  harder  still  for  him 
— how  to  give  way  before  an  enemy.  He  had  disdained 
to  leave  his  mule,  but  rode  up  and  down,  between 
Orion  and  our  men,  falling  back — an  attraction  of  shots 
and  an  inspiration  of  nerve. 

"  Keep  the  door  open  till  the  last  man  is  in,"  I 
yelled,  turning  toward  the  Vatican;  and  a  moment  later 


308  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

I  was  in  the  midst  of  Huntoon's  soldiers,  breasting 
through  them  and  swept  back  with  them  laughingly.  I 
heard  their  queer  talk  amid  a  killing  fire.  .  .  .  Orion  had 
formed  on  the  open  slopes  and  was  gaining  ground  in 
a  business-like  way — charging  as  skirmishers,  and  drop 
ping  to  cover  and  fire  every  thirty  or  forty  feet.  I  saw 
the  angle  of  his  forward  line  of  rifles,  as  it  swung  to 
cover  Huntoon  and  his  careening  mule.  Now  it  occurred 
to  me  that  my  friend  was  known  to  the  attacking  party. 
With  a  clutch  of  fear,  the  thought  added  that  Orion 
would  be  especially  eager  to  kill  Huntoon  for  that  reason. 
At  this  instant  a  shot  felled  his  mule  in  full  stride.  A 
cheer  from  the  skirmishers  answered  the  fall.  Huntoon 
cut  it  short  by  regaining  his  feet  and  resuming  his 
inspiration.  I  bellowed  at  him: 

"  Come  on  in,  old  man, — we're  all  covered.  Every 
thing  is  safe  inside.  Come  on  to  breakfast — it's  cold 
with  the  door  open." 

But  the  blithe  ruffian  wouldn't  hurry.  He  had  got 
his  men  safely  home.  All  but  a  handful  of  his  own 
sort  were  covered  in  the  massive  walls.  I  made  for  the 
little  party — thinking  what  it  meant  to  father  wilful  boys 
who  refused  to  come  in  out  of  a  storm.  Huntoon  had 
retreated  soldier-like — until  his  party  was  safe.  He  saw 
me  and  called: 

"  Go  back.  I'm  all  right — I'm  coming  " — finishing 
the  sentence  from  his  knees.  Again  he  popped  up. 
And  now  I  think  he  must  have  heard  a  last  cry  from 
one  of  our  fallen,  for  he  staggered  forward  toward  a 
man  who  was  down — bent  over  him  and  fell  across  the 
prone  body.  Orion's  front  was  less  than  sixty  yards 
away. 

I  had  to  have  Huntoon.    A  chap  at  my  side  saw  I 


Lost  Valley  .  309 

had  to  have  him.  .  .  .  My  friend,  the  remittance-man, 
was  grinning  up  at  me,  but  the  man  beneath  was  dead. 
A  hand  helped  me  to  lift  the  smiling  one — a  steady 
hand  in  that  murderous  swarm.  It  was  Maconachie, 
who  had  not  left  my  side. 

Orion's  men  were  upon  us  as  we  gained  the  Vatican. 
I  heard  the  clang  of  the  bullets  upon  the  iron  portal — 
and  felt  suddenly  the  whole  weight  of  Huntoon.  A 
dozen  hands  stretched  out  to  help  us  in,  and  the  big 
door  slammed  upon  the  new  masters  of  Tropicania. 

Maconachie  was  on  his  feet  with  a  wound  in  each 
arm.  The  miracle  of  my  escape  did  not  occur  to  me 
till  afterward.  The  yells  of  Orion's  men  outside  and 
the  silent  crowding  at  hand,  were  but  vague  matters  of 
consciousness.  ...  I  was  bending  over  Huntoon,  who 
had  been  hit  a  dozen  times. 

"  It's  queer,"  he  said,  smiling  at  me  like  a  lad  grown 
tired  at  play,  "  how  the  booze  can  throw  you.  .  .  . 
They  got  some  of  Dole's  stuff  at  the  Pass  last  night. 
Me — Huntoon — sleeping  in  between,  and  Tropicania 
drunk  at  both  ends.  .  .  .  Orion  shoved  a  big  bamboo 
bridge  across  at  dawn — and  struck  a  lot  of  all-winter 
sleeps.  I'll  bet  he  heard  our  sentries  snore.  That's 
what  woke  him  up.  .  .  .  Queer  how  the  booze  threw 
me  down  without  me  taking  a  drink " 

"  Huntoon,  old  soul, — you  brought  us  in  beau 
tifully » 

He  winced. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  I,  "  it  would  have  been  a  lot 
easier  to  charge — but  it  took  a  soldier  to  fall  back. 
Only  after  you  got  the  men  within  the  shadow  of  the 
Vatican — you  lost  interest  and  forgot  yourself " 

"  Queer  how  the  old  red  booze " 


310  The  Road  of  Living  Men 


"  Yes- 


And  just  then  I  saw  his  forefinger  wriggling — as  if 
to  beckon  me  closer. 

"  Back  in  old  St.  Louis — tell  the  little  old  lady — that 
I  was  the  original  river-water  kid.  .  .  .  Leave  me  alone, 
Jason — these  here  are  my  obsequies.  .  .  .  Say  to  the 
old  man — I  mean  Romany — that  he  looked  good  to  me. 
.  .  .  And  to  Old  Top, — oh,  you'll  know  what  to  say. 
.  .  .  And  what's  coming — give  to  that  Mission  up  the 
River.  Mention  the  Mission  in  St.  Louis, — they're 
strong  for  Missions.  .  .  .  You'll  go  up  the  River  some 
time — give  her  my  respects.  God,  even  her?  ..." 

He  didn't  finish  that  sentence,  but  added: 

"  I've  got  to  laugh  at  the  old  red  booze,  after  all — • 
how  it  threw  me — and  me  sleepin'  like  a  deacon  in  a 
dry  county.  .  .  .  And  say,  Ryerson,  we  pulled  together, 
didn't  we?  'Member  comin'  down  the  coast  to  the 
Headland?  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  get  reckless  and  put  on 
a  clean  shirt ?" 

That  was  the  last  he  said. 

I  went  about  the  work  coldly.  I  couldn't  get  it  all 
straight — that  Huntoon  had  crossed  over — that  just  the 
machine  he  had  fought  with,  was  there  by  the  wall, 
covered.  .  .  .  The  air  was  getting  close.  All  Tropicania 
was  pack".:-  in  the  temple,  and  in  sickening  silence.  They 
were  waiting  for  me. 

"  Orion  thinks  he's  got  us  penned,  and  won't  hurry," 
I  said.  "  But  we  must  get  out  of  here — at  least,  all  but 
a  guard  to  keep  him  guessing.  .  .  .  Orion  can't  break 
this  iron  door  without  artillery,  and  it  will  take  time  to 
get  a  big  gun.  The  dynamite  is  all  stored  here.  No 
pipes  nor  cigarettes.  Yes,  I  know  how  excitement  makes 


Lost  Valley  311 

one  itch  for  a  smoke.  .  .  .  Also,  there  are  women  present. 
.  .  .  Fellows,"  I  went  on,  raising  my  voice,  "  in  so  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  there'll  be  no  tales  told  when  we  pass 
in  review  before  the  old  Master — which  won't  be  long 
now,  I  think.  Orion  fooled  us  when  we  were  chang 
ing  a  guard  at  the  Pass,  and  I  had  called  Huntoon 
down  for  a  conference.  There  wasn't  any  trouble  on 
the  dredge  nor  the  river — as  for  the  rest,  we'll  lay  it  to 
old  King  Alcohol,  and  we  won't  be  so  far  wrong.  .  .  . 
Now  I'm  going  to  show  you  the  gold  and  lead  you  out 
into  daylight." 

Water  was  brought  and  the  panel  swung.  .  .  .  Directly 
upon  opening  the  second  door  to  the  mountain  passage, 
Yarbin's  hand  reached  for  mine.  He  said  that  the 
women  had  heard  the  firing  and  were  frantically  await 
ing  word — that  the  old  Master  was  being  carried  in  on 
a  litter  across  Lost  Valley,  and  would  be  with  the  women 
in  a  half-hour.  I  told  him  hastily  of  the  attack;  and 
that  all  the  placer  people  were  behind,  in  the  Vatican. 
He  hurried  back  through  the  passage.  And  now  work 
began. 

A  dozen  men  were  left  in  the  Vatican.  The  rest 
carried  the  gold  and  stores  through  the  passage  and  up 
the  trail  to  a  place  Yarbin  designated.  Rifles,  ammuni 
tion,  provisions — all  the  big  essentials  except  the 
dynamite  were  removed.  ...  At  mid-forenoon  Yarbin 
brought  word  that  the  old  Master  was  anxious  to  see 
me.  They  had  raised  a  tent  for  him  at  the  top  of  the 
trail  from  the  gorge.  As  I  gained  the  eminence  where 
the  pennant  fluttered  from  the  bamboo-cane,  I  looked 
across  to  the  terrace  where  she  had  stood.  And  there 
she  was  waiting  now  as  before.  She  waved  at  me.  That 


312  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

was  all.    I  asked  no  more.  .  .  .  She  had  left  her  father 
that  I  might  go  to  him. 

That  tent  at  the  top  of  the  gorge  was  like  the  hall 
of  a  dying  emperor  to  me.  He  had  kept  his  word  about 
preserving  enough  vitality  to  see  the  end  of  his  journey — 
but  there  seemed  not  much  left  over.  .  .  .  He  talked 
blithely,  listened  with  that  quizzical  look  when  I  told  him 
of  the  attack  of  the  morning ;  and  when  he  began  to  look 
too  closely  at  me,  I  told  him  of  Huntoon.  .  .  . 

The  Alcyone  had  been  driven  hundreds  of  miles  off 
her  course  on  the  way  up  and  had  reached  San  Diego 
ten  days  late — but  with  her  lives  and  her  gold.  How 
Romany  toiled  may  be  imagined,  since  his  return  to 
Lost  Valley  had  been  but  three  days  behind  schedule. 
The  office  had  been  established ;  the  assay  completed. 
Each  man's  allotment  for  the  first  and  main  shipment 
was  in  the  form  of  an  order,  ready  to  be  delivered  on 
the  morrow.  Leek  was  in  charge  at  San  Diego.  The 
Alcyone  was  once  more  lying  in  the  mouth  of  the  Clara, 
ready  to  carry  back  the  men  and  treasure.  There  was 
currency  for  Yarbin.  The  terrible  Tropicania  game  was 
won. 

Romany  seemed  to  respect  my  tension  regarding 
questions.  I  must  have  been  half-mad.  All  I  knew, 
was  that  my  work  must  be  finished.  There  were  a 
thousand  things  I  wanted  to  ask  the  old  Master,  but 
I  was  ashamed  that  we  had  not  quitted  the  Pass — 
instead  of  losing  it.  I  still  kept  hearing  Huntoon's 
words.  The  flesh  was  broken  upon  my  back  and  throat 
and  hands  and  face.  The  men  literally  leaped  when  I 
spoke — as  if  I  were  the  devil. 

All  that  day  we  toiled,  and  Orion  was  more  or  less 


Lost  Valley  313 

quiet.  I  think  he  was  puzzled.  He  wanted  to  give  us 
a  taste  of  confinement  and  bad  air,  before  treating  with 
us  in  the  usual  military  fashion.  At  least  he  sent  no 
envoys  to  the  great  iron  door. 

Late  that  afternoon,  when  all  the  dynamite  had  been 
carried  from  the  Vatican  into  the  vault,  I  closed  the 
trachyte  panel  for  the  last  time.  Huntoon  and  others — 
too  many  the  sacrifice — were  in  the  vault,  under  the 
tarpaulins  which  had  covered  the  gold.  .  .  .  And  now  I 
detailed  three  of  Maconachie's  assistants — explosive-ex 
perts — to  block  the  passage.  I  wanted  the  very  heart 
of  the  mountain  emptied  into  it,  beyond  the  possibility  of 
Orion  getting  through,  even  if  he  succeeded  in  wrecking 
his  way  into  the  vault  itself. 

Maconachie's  aides  went  about  the  job  scientifically, 
explaining  that  it  would  take  several  hours  to  get  the 
powder  planted.  A  series  of  three  or  four  blasts  would 
obliterate  the  wonder-working  of  the  Quichuans.  They 
appeared  to  figure  the  result,  more  or  less  exactly,  of 
each  blast.  ...  I  bade  them  make  haste.  There  was  no 
rest  for  me,  until  they  were  finished.  The  thing  had 
become  a  mania.  I  had  sent  repeated  excuses  to  the 
old  Master.  I  had  told  Yarbin  I  must  see  this  through. 
.  .  .  Between  nine  and  ten  that  night,  one  of  the  experts 
assigned  to  the  work,  found  me  to  report  that  the 
powder  was  planted — three  charges  which  would  seal 
forever  the  irmer  end  of  the  passage.  I  ordered  the 
fuses  lit,  and  paced  in  the  darkness  meanwhile.  .  .  . 
Twice  in  the  next  fifteen  minutes,  we  felt  the  seismic 
throbs;  then  a  second's  fraction  of  rending  adjustment — 
giants  fighting  in  a  frail  room — and  the  crashes  came 
up  the  gorge  like  the  end  of  all  things.  ...  I  stood 
apart  in  the  darkness — waiting  for  the  third.  I  thought 


314  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

*  the  blood  would  burst  from  my  eyes,  as  I  waited.  And 
after  the  explosion — I  belonged  to  them  who  were  watch 
ing,  but  who  would  not  come  near — until  I  fell. 


21 

THE  mountain  peaks  across  Lost  Valley — I  thought 
for  many  days — belonged  to  another  planet.  I  could  just 
see  the  black  and  glacial  tips  through  the  tent-opening; 
and  from  where  my  head  lay,  no  depth  of  valley  was 
in  view — just  the  ethereal  divide  and  the  sky,  and  that 
far  alien  coast  of  peaks. 

Distantly  I  remember  the  men  filing  past  my  cot — 
holding  their  hats  in  their  hands;  and  one  voice  that 
put  out  the  day  and  hurt  me  with  rope  and  beam  and 
stone  and  evil  night.  .  .  .  There  was  a  renewal  of 
acquaintance  with  those  different  planes  of  being  that 
had  puzzled  me,  on  the  journey  down  the  Yellow  River. 
Something  was  left  from  the  faces  that  filed  interminably 
by — a  goodness,  a  strength,  a  pity — thrilling  from  the 
hard  hands  that  touched  mine  and  from  the  faces  of 
men  who  did  not  try  to  make  words  work. 

First  of  the  tangible  things,  a  pair  of  long  lank 
legs.  These  shut  off  my  other  world  one  morning.  I 
followed  them  up  and  up  rapidly  wearying,  until  (as  one 
scrambles  panting  to  a  crest)  I  found  Maconachie.  The 
face  was  worth  finding.  I  think  the  blasting  did  it. 
Often  those  are  rare  friends  that  you  have  to  blast  for. 
He  carried  his  arms  like  flippers,  for  they  were  band 
aged  and  in  splints.  This  recalled  how  we  had  brought 
in  Huntoon  after  his  last  stand,  and  how  Mac  had 
dropped  his  part  of  the  burden  at  the  Vatican  door. 

He  would  -not  talk  to  me ;  but  always  when  I  opened 


Lost  Valley  315 

my  eyes,  his  smile  burst  into  bloom.  Mac's  mother 
may  have  known  that  smile.  Sometime  possibly  another 
woman  will  get  it — but  I  am  the  third,  having  blasted 
for  it. 

For  a  long  time  no  one  would  talk  to  me.  .  .  .  Often 
I  seemed  back  with  Yuan  Kang  Su  (by  the  rivers  of 
Babylon,  I  was  about  to  write),  sitting  in  that  heavenly 
dawn-mist  on  the  banks  of  the  Calderon.  There  was 
never  a  dawn  so  soft,  so  blue.  I  thirsted  to  drink  again 
of  that  vapory  ocean  as  the  day  came  up  over  the  moun 
tain  like  the  tip  of  a  flamingo  feather.  But  always  I 
would  remember  China — not  the  mother,  but  the  mob, 
— the  mob  that  had  destroyed  him  because  he  was  an 
individual.  Always  the  mob  is  frenzied  by  an  individual. 
...  A  God-touched  woman — that  was  Yuan's  word — 
such  a  woman  perceives  a  Shining  One  in  the  midst 
of  the  myriad  that  wait  upon  the  Shore.  She  calls — 
and  eagerly  He  comes.  She  gives  him  to  the  world — 
a  man.  His  race  watches  him  rise,  follows  a  little  way 
— then,  in  sudden  earth-madness  breaks  his  body.  But 
afterward,  in  the  clear  light  that  comes  after  the 
martyrdom — the  race  discovers  that  in  following  ever 
so  little,  it  has  come  to  a  better  country.  .  .  .  And  I 
had  come  to  a  better  country  for  knowing  the  nobleman, 
Yuan  Kang  Su. 

The  days  passed  with  unnatural  swiftness.  There 
was  a  high  light  upon  them.  ...  I  knew  that  if  I  could 
awaken  just  exactly  as  I  wanted,  Mary  Romany  would 
be  there.  .  .  .  The  first  I  remember  of  real  talk  was  with 
Lillian  Yarbin.  She  was  splendid  and  more  than  ever 
unbounded  from  long  companionship  with  Mary  Romany. 
.  .  .  Then  a  day  afterward,  the  old  Master  came,  on 


316  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

the  arm  of  Yarbin.  He  caught  my  hand  and  held  it  up, 
to  the  light.  It  was  whiter  but  peeling.  ...  I  wondered 
at  him,  as  he  started  to  speak.  This  was  before  he  began 
to  bring  me  notes.  Very  carefully  he  told  me  of  the 
day  when  the  miners  marched  out  of  Lost  Valley — how 
twenty  of  them  would  not  go,  until  they  had  come  here 
to  see  me.  He  repeated  every  detail  as  if  I  were  a 
child — how  they  carried  their  hats,  and  touched  my 
hands,  and  muttered  my  name  and  other  things. 

"  When  you  are  an  old  man,  Tom,"  he  added,  "  you 
will  remember  what  I  am  telling  you  now.  You  will  be 
glad  for  every  detail.  It's  a  better  thing  than  I  have 
ever  done.  They  will  tell  it,  after  the  sting  goes  out 
of  the  memory — that  night  in  the  Vatican.  They  will 
tell  their  wives  and  children;  and  whenever  they  read 
or  hear  of  someone  in  the  world  proving  his  manhood — 
they  will  think  of  you  opening  the  iron  door.  .  .  .  I'm 
glad  I  could  see  them — as  they  made  their  last  call  here." 

I  knew  better,  but  his  eyes  held  me,  delighting  in 
the  happiness  he  gave. 

"  When  I  asked  for  volunteers  to  stay  with  us  in 
Lost  Valley — the  whole  twenty  offered,"  he  continued. 
"  We  needed  but  five  or  six.  Maconachie  refused  to 
leave.  I  want  to  know  sometime  exactly  what  you  did 
to  Mac.  .  .  .  Yarbin  here  and  the  good  lady — we  couldn't 
spare " 

"  They  are  not  quite  ready  for  us  in  the  States," 
Yarbin  said  with  a  smile. 

"  I've  sent  instructions  to  Leek  to  take  care  of 
Yarbin's  case." 

"Then  there's  just  a  handful  left  in  Lost  Valley?" 
I  asked. 


Lost  Valley  317 

"  A  round  dozen.  Two  women,  Mac,  Yarbin,  you 
and  I — and  six  men." 

"  How  long  since  the  placer-crew  left  ? " 

"  Twelve  days  ago — the  second  day  after  the  blasts." 

I  laughed,  but  only  Mary  Romany  would  have  known 
why.  Fourteen  days  I  had  drifted,  but  the  days  of  the 
Year  had  registered  just  the  same.  Less  than  three 
weeks  left. 

"  And  how  did  you  happen  to  stay  in  Lost  Valley — 
this  little  party?" 

"  Take  your  choice  of  several  reasons :  After  the  bad 
weather  off  Lower  California  last  trip,  I  was  very  glad 
to  wait  for  the  Alcyone  to  come  back  after  this  voyage. 
I  was  always  a  landsman.  Why,  I've  had  a  chance  to 
draw  a  breath  of  real  life — something  that  hasn't  to  do 
with  gold.  The  last  two  weeks  have  been  wonderful 
to  me,  who  had  to  be  carried  across  the  valley  from 
the  ship " 

"  I  saw  wrong  that — that  day  of  the  blasts,"  I  said. 
"  I  thought  you  were  dying." 

"  We  all  thought  you  were,  Tom,"  he  answered. 
"  You  were  a  ruffian  and  a  mad-man.  Nobody  dared 
approach  you — until  they  '  let  go '  the  powder.  Then 
you  crumpled.  .  .  .  The  quiet  here  has  been  important 
for  you." 

The  day  afterward,  the  old  Master  came  alone  and 
whispered :  "  It  was  Mary  who  first  thought  of  staying. 
She  asked  if  we  were  safe  from  the  other  valley.  I 
replied  that  we  were  as  safe,  as  if  the  Pacific  lay  be 
tween.  She  asked  if  there  were  provisions  in  plenty, 
and  told  her  we  had  enough  for  a  year.  It  was  then 
declared — you  were  not  to  be  moved " 

I  was  floating  away  off  among  the  Covent  memories. 


318  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

.  .  .  The  words  of  Mary  Romany  one  morning  in  the 
Other  Room  returned :  "  You  think  there  is  silence  here 
and  solitude.  This  is  but  the  edge  of  that  silence  and 
solitude  I  desire, — when  &ur  day  comes.  I  think  I  am 
very  strange  and  terrible,  but  I  want  to  meet  you  in 
some  land  the  giants  have  left — some  vast  and  mighty 
wilderness — that  I  can  make  glad  for  you." 

"  She  is  well  to-day  ?  "  I  whispered  wearily. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  she  does  not  come  near — here  ?  " 

"  You  are  too  near  well.  She  had  everything  in 
hand  the  first  week.  .  .  .  You  do  things  in  your  own 
way — you  two,"  he  added  queerly. 

I  laughed.  .  .  . 

Lillian  Yarbin  tried  hard  to  understand.  I  doubt  if 
she  ever  tried  so  hard  to  understand  anything.  She 
watched  me  often  with  a  queer  expanding  smile  and  a 
steady  intent  look  in  her  eye — then  she  would  slap  her 
hands  together  and  shake  her  head. 

"  But  she's  here  and  you're  here,  and  you  are  dying 
for  each  other " 

That  was  as  far  as  she  could  go.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
fineness  about  Yarbin.  It  seemed  to  keep  him  from 
speaking.  But  then  he  never  told  his  own  history.  I 
often  wondered  if  Teck  and  Morgan  waited  to  come 
into  Tropicania  with  Orion.  .  .  . 

Now  that  I  was  improving  so  rapidly,  a  letter  came 
every  day.  I  wrote  of  Yuan  Kang  Su  and  Huntoon — 
how  strangely  dear  they  were — of  Yarbin,  Maconachie 
and  the  old  Master.  A  man's  friends — the  ships  that 
come  and  go  from  his  harbor,  and  are  so  welcome. 
These  brought  profits  to  me,  dearer  than  the  sands  of 
the  Calderon.  A  man's  fleet  of  friends — honors  a  man 


Lost  Valley  319 

brings  a  woman.  I  often  think  of  lying  beached  and 
broken  at  evening,  and — quietly  hurrying  in  from  far 
seas — the  brothers  of  the  fleet.  ...  I  told  Mary  Romany 
of  the  messages  we  must  carry  to  St.  Louis  and  up  the 
Yellow  River,  pilgrimages  together. 

Yes,  there  was  a  light  upon  the  last  days — hours 
with  Romany,  with  Maconachie,  a  dinner  with  Yarbin 
and  his  Lillian;  a  strange  but  intimate  association  that 
brought  out  values  from  the  depths  of  the  six  miners 
who  had  remained  against  every  desire  of  their  hearts. 
Then,  alone  with  my  thoughts — hours  and  hours  of 
gratefulness  and  restoration. 

Mornings  and  evenings  across  the  mountain-side  from 
Mary  Romany's  terrace  to  mine — the  mute  waving  of 
hands. 

Once,  as  I  was  going  to  her  father's  tent,  she  was 
just  coming  forth.  She  was  startled,  smiled ;  for  an 
instant  searched  my  face  as  a  mother  searches  the  face 
of  her  son,  home  from  his  first  far  voyage.  On  she 
passed — head  bowed  in  the  perfect  olive  glow.  Noth 
ing  had  I  missed,  the  seam  at  her  shoulder,  the  white 
at  her  temples,  nor  grace,  nor  glory.  .  .  .  And  I  did  not 
go  to  the  old  Master's  tent  after  that,  but  up  the  moun 
tain  to  the  end  of  all  trails,  where  the  air  began  to  nip 
from  the  snows — alone,  to  realize,  as  I  might,  the 
mystery  and  beauty  of  a  loving  woman. 

Near  the  end  of  all  possible  ascending  (the  glacier 
far  above  was  like  an  un-cut  diamond  set  in  rusted  iron) 
I  found  a  spring,  and  traced  it  to  the  source,  ice-cold 
and  pure.  The  air  had  sharpness  from  that  ice-jewel, 
but  brave  fronds  were  about  the  Spring,  and  a  net 
work  of  vines  and  creepers.  There  I  stood  in  the  dim 
ness — and  the  source  became  a  shrine  to  me.  For  a 


320  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

moment  I  touched  Realities;  for  a  moment  I  had  vision 
and  human  kindness — an  excellent  stamina  from  the 
high  source  of  good  things.  And  this  has  remained 
with  me :  that  Mary  Romany  and  I  were  one ;  that  even 
if  I  knew  her  no  more  as  now,  we  were  one;  that  flesh 
is  but  a  tithe  of  the  meaning  of  a  great  love.  And  a 
continuous  lustre  has  remained  from  that  realization,  a 
fresh  fineness  of  patience,  a  new  mastery  of  self. 

I  parted  the  network  of  vines  at  last;  and  beheld 
with  a  strength  of  eye  that  I  had  not  known  before — 
the  Jovian  vista  across  Lost  Valley,  and  the  great  Andean 
peaks  beyond,  their  imperial  contours,  monster  ice-packs ; 
and  in  that  inter-stellar  stillness,  I  knew  then  that  one 
might  learn  easily  to  hear  his  soul. 

That  night  I  wrote  a  note,  and  told  of  the  realiza 
tions, — and  the  shrine  of  them,  the  high  gushing  Spring. 
And  that  night,  I  told  Maconachie  the  secret  of  happi 
ness;  at  least  I  caught  myself  declaring  devoutly:  ".  .  . 
and  when  you  have  found  her — go  away  for  a  Year. 
Say  to  her,  that  you  go  to  search  for  a  flower  of  pure 
spirit,  that  takes  root  amid  loving  and  dreaming  and 
waiting."  .  .  .  Queerly  tucked  away  among  the  sen 
tences  of  a  letter  I  received  the  next  dusk  was  a  line — 
that  sometime  I  should  find  her  there  at  the  Spring. 

There  remained  but  three  days  of  the  Year.  I  had 
passed  the  afternoon  with  the  old  Master.  Poise  and 
peace  had  come  to  the  restless  soul.  We  were  very 
close  together ;  there  had  been  a  fine  touch  to  our  relation 
from  the  first  moment  in  Tropicania. 

I  returned  to  my  tent,  as  the  sun  reddened  the  sea 
ward  range.  .  .  .  There  was  a  moment  (we  never  needed 
words  nor  watches)  when  I  stepped  out  to  look  across 


Lost  Valley  321 

the  slopes  where  the  marguerites  had  been — to  her 
eminence.  This  was  our  Retreat.  She  was  standing 
there. 

And  she  did  not  wave  to  me. 

As  clearly  as  if  her  thought  had  used  my  mind,  I 
knew  that  instant — the  end  had  come  to  our  waiting. 

Her  arm  lifted,  the  hand  pointing  to  the  snows  of 
the  mountain,  to  the  end  of  all  trails.  Her  loose  sleeve 
had  fallen,  as  the  hand  raised — the  bare  white  arm  point 
ing  toward  the  Spring.  .  .  .  Then  Mary  Romany  turned, 
not  to  her  tent  but  to  the  mountain-trail. 

I  returned  to  cover  and  knelt,  as  I  had  lain  so  many 
days — facing  the  other  world  across  the  divide.  I  could 
not,  without  this  outpouring,  have  contained  my  thank 
fulness  for  life  and  love  and  the  vision  of  it,  and  for 
the  three  days — her  gracious  gift  to  me. 

...  I  was  far  behind,  climbing  with  the  shadows, 
as  the  sun  sank  over-sea.  Lost  Valley  deepened,  be 
came  mystic  with  night,  but  a  saintly  glow  was  fading 
from  the  leaves  above,  and  a  red  ray  fell  like  rust 
upon  the  black  iron  setting  of  the  glacial  diamond. 
This  was  Rising  Road.  .  .  .  Bright  Angel  Trail.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  as  if  I  were  a  spirit,  following  a  fairer 
spirit,  up  to  the  Spring  where  life  began — to  the  place 
where  the  Gods  had  touched  a  -new  world  into  creation. 

The  finer  moments  of  life  were  with  me — music  of 
Oporto,  palace  at  Petersburg,  the  kiss  at  Hong  Kong, 
garden  of  the  yellow  rose,  deck  of  La  Samaritaine,  spark 
ling  beaches  at  Covent,  the  Other  Room,  terrace  of  the 
marguerites ;  and  blending  curiously  with  Mary  Romany 
in  all  these  pictures  was  a  mother-tone  I  had  lost  in  far 

wanderings The  spirit  of  things  well-done  lived 

with  me,  the  valor  of  dead  friends,  from  the  blue  mist 
21 


322  The  Road  of  Living  Men 

of  Yuan's  dawn,  and  the  dim  temple  of  Huntoon's  pass 
ing;  and  all  weariness  and  fever  was  healed,  and  the 
cramped  places  of  the  heart  breathed. 

The  thin  stream  of  the  Spring  whispered  in  low 
animation  the  secrets  of  life.  The  red  and  gold  had 
wavered  out  of  the  heights — only  the  pale  lustre  of  the 
snows  lingering.  .  .  .  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
shrine. 

I  parted  the  leaves.  All  was  shadow — until  the  glow 
from  the  peak  left  my  eyes.  Then  I  saw  her  standing, 
among  the  contours  of  the  darkness,  still  as  the  Night 
itself — and  behind  and  beyond  Mary  Romany,  for  an 
instant  (curious  the  light  like  a  cascade  in  the  moon 
light) — tarried  the  Shining  Waiting  One. 

THE  END. 


